#its ingrained into me permanently now

[stuck-in-the-ghost-zone]

sea creatures :]

[redjademilktea]

Last night's episode of 4 Sided Dive was absolutely wonderful in terms of the amount of insight and perspective we got. Not only the Crown Keepers interlude, but also for campaign 3's themes as a whole.

Specifically what fascinated me though, was the incredible analogy Aimee drew between the Ruidian culture and colonial influence on indigenous/colonized spaces in real life (around the 1h32m mark for reference). It was amazing question to ask and I'll love Aimee endlessly for it because it touches on am interesting parallel between the discourse surrounding the Exandiran gods and what they thematically can represent to us as an audience.

Before I dive into my thoughts, I want to preface this by saying this is my specific perspective as a queer woman of color and daughter of a refugee. While my year-5-in-a-PhD-program brain may just be over analyzing this too much, what Aimee brought up just deeply resonated with me in a way that I don't really see talked about in discussions around the themes of campaign 3. Additionally, the ideas I'll be talking about borrow heavily from Christine Taitano DeLisle's Placental Politics: CHamoru Women, White Womanhood, and Indigeneity under U.S. Colonialism in Guam (2023). Its an incredible piece on indigenous knowledge production and political action that importantly looks to decenter colonial perspectives and history (and more importantly recenter indigenous histories, knowledge, and perspectives in a way that allows us to dislodge the idea that colonialism is something that is immutable and inevitable.)

To quickly summarize Aimee's point/follow up question, she pointed out that the way Ruidians have engaged with, repurposed, and were resentful towards Exandrian cultures mirrors some of the real life experiences of colonized/marginalized communities in relation to colonialism. It was such a powerful comparison to make because in a lot of ways, the struggle of the Ruidian people over the course of the campaign along with the looming question about the gods and whether or not to save them is (intentional or not) deeply resonant with the idea of colonialism and the ways it is deeply ingrained in the even mundane aspects of our life.

In a lot of ways, the Exandrian pantheon can be seen as a colonial force. One that came in and displaced a preexisting order of things and entrenched itself in the new way of being it established. Ashton and Laudna have repeatedly pointed this out throughout the campaign. There was life and existence before the gods. The gods are merely a different mode of being, not the only and inevitable mode of being. Life, society, and being can and did exist without them.

And its important to recognize that aspect of the gods, because it helps us understand their motivations that much better. Aabria in her description of what Opal saw in the Spider Queen as she tried to take Opal as her champion was poignant. Opal did not see an omniscient, unknowable entity. She saw a woman. A woman who was frustrated, angry, and most importantly frightened. They keep Predathos chained away not to protect life on Exandria nor because they feel a moral obligation to do so. They are doing so because they are afraid. Their mortality is at stake. And, as Aabria keenly pointed out, their pride is as well. Every action, every move is out of self preservation. An attempt to save themselves because Predathos demonstrate that not even the gods are a permanent thing.

You'll find (as Anne Stoler writes about frequently) that colonial systems are much the same. They are vehemently intent on self preservation. Any action they undertake and any narrative they create about themselves is solely done to preserve the way things are currently. And that includes narratives that the way things are currently is somehow inevitable. That things were always coming to this moment. Often, this is done at the expense of framing other modes of being as somehow antithetical to the way things are now. That it needs to be this way. And that this way is right and forever.

To me, its important to recognize these parallels. While Ruidians may engage with, adapt, and innovate off of Exandrian ideas, culture, and art, it is only because - as Aimee aptly phrased it - Exandrian culture as a direct result of the gods actions has "sucked all the air out" everything. What is there to engage with, if not the looming orb in the sky that has shaped every aspect of their existence?

It really brings the campaign-wide question of "should we save the gods?" into new light, at least in my opinion. Because its suddenly not about "saving the gods in a morally righteous act to preserve all life." It becomes a layered and complicated network of issues that makes the answer to that question incredibly difficult to answer. Is preserving the status quo because its how things operate now worth it at the expense of the suffering of others? What would saving the gods and the Ruidians look like? Is it even possible to save both? What changes to how things operate would be a result of that? How would those changes be handled?

I bring this up because there is a tendency in some discourse that I've seen to frame questioning the validity of saving the gods as inherently the "wrong" choice to make. When instead, when you see the cast struggling over the question, its because the answer is not straight forward. The gods are not necessary for life. They never were. They just are necessary for life the way things are now. And the question of what disrupting that means is such a fascinating one to engage with.

[milksnake-tea]

❀ ˎˊ- prompt: he'd wanted to at least see her one last time before his ascension, but it seems that even that is too much to ask of the harmony. ❀ ˎˊ- sunday character study ❀ ˎˊ- wc: 641 ❀ ˎˊ- warnings: set in 2.0-2.1, MAJOR ANGST WARNING, gorey language used like once but it's metaphorical ❀ ˎˊ- a/n: this is all vee and bells fault btw also this tweet that changed my brain chemistry now everyone has to suffer with me. if this had a title it would be "she used to be mine" but its too short so it won't :) ❀ ˎˊ- taglist: @sh0jun , @themoderatelyawesomeninja , @xphantasmagoriax , @rainswept , @lucensei , @akutasoda , @naraven , @scribs-dibs , @apathicace , @flurrina , @tragedy-of-commons , @cakechase , @kiiyoooo ❀ ˎˊ- img credits

She’s gone.

And with her, goes every thought in his mind.

Ringing fills his ears. He can barely hear the voices of his attendant.

His lips move. What he says, he’s already forgotten.

His vision blurs. His eyes sting.

He sits. He stays. He stares.

She’s gone.

Robin’s gone.

The sweetheart of the cosmos, the idol beloved by all, the beacon of light in a night-filled sky-

His little sister is dead, and he wasn’t even there to stop it.

Muttered voices fade into a disorientated buzz that he can’t be bothered to decipher. Clicking of shoes, rustling of papers, all of it- it’s too much, it’s loud and it’s grating and-

Inhale.

Exhale.

Smile.

His cheeks hurt.

His nails bite into his palms. He wants to dig them into his face and tear off the skin and every horrid pretense he’s had to put up for the sake of this damned Family and that damningly weak Aeon who couldn’t even protect their most loyal acolyte.

And now, his sister is dead. Killed in her own home, in the domain of her god.

He’ll never see her again.

He’ll never see her smile, with the brightest lights and flames in her eyes as she sings on the grandest of stages.

He’ll never hear her laugh, with the voice blessed by the Harmony and the voice that had allowed him to continue fighting, even when he wanted to give up.

He’ll never hold her again, the sister who he had vowed to protect and had failed, not once, but twice now, and this time, his mistake, his carelessness was permanent.

Now, she is gone.

He asks his attendant to leave, as gently and as kindly as he can allow. He wants to scream. He wants to shout, he wants to cry, he wants to strangle and rip into whatever bastard dared to kill the only person he had ever loved, the only thing he had ever thought to be precious.

Was this some sort of punishment? For daring to question Xipe, or better yet, to question Ena? Was their devotion not strong enough? Was their actions not kind enough? Were they not enough?

Or were they simply just… insignificant, despite it all?

Then what was the point?

Despondently, his gaze raises from the cold wood of his desk.

Does Xipe even know?

Do they even care?

Something catches light in the corner of his eyes. There, in one of the many bookshelves in his office, a paperback spine stands apart from the rest. He knows it, bitterness and bile rising in his throat, he knows it better than anything.

He stands, and takes it from the shelf. He doesn’t open it.

The cover smiles up at him, the golden text taunting and mocking.

He grits his teeth.

A weak Path. A weak Aeon.

A weak brother.

He tears into the Odes of Harmony, ripping pages upon pages upon pages of lies, false vows, and cruel, cruel delusions. Inked words that had been ingrained into him since childhood are crushed under the sole of his shoe. The smiling face of a deceitful, lying Aeon is ripped into two.

His teeth tug at his lip. His chest constricts with the effort to keep his sobs down, to keep his eyes dry and to keep his grief and sorrow secret from the halls of Dewlight Pavilion. Every intake of air is a struggle in of itself, and it takes every bit of his strength not to break down and wail to the heavens to give his sister back.

It isn’t long before the Odes are reduced to nothing, and Sunday is left there, alone in his office with scattered pieces of paper littering his floor.

Xipe smiles up at him in two ripped halves of a page.

He hates how he sees Robin in Them.

reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

[sarahs-secrets2]

She (Phillip Graves x Reader) 18+࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ

MINORS DNI 18+

based on She by Harry Styles

fem!reader (no use of Y/N)

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: NSFW, smut, daddy vibes? , phillip is cheating on his wife with reader, pet names, reader is homewrecker (sorry)

₊°✧︡ ˗ ˏ ˋ ♡ ˎˊ ˗

Phillip sat in his big office staring out the panoramic windows. His head buzzed as he twisted the wedding ring around his finger. The office chair squeaked as he leaned back in it, images of you tangled up in his sheets clouded his train of thought. The red lacy lingerie was permanently ingrained into his memory. From the way it hugged your figure, to how it felt to tear it off. He fully slipped the gold band off, heavily examining it. The knock at the door pulled Phillip back down from his daydreams as he quickly slipped the wedding ring back onto his finger. 

“Come in,” he coughed, adjusting in the creaky chair trying to look as normal as possible. His secretary stepped in cautiously as she clutched her notepad. 

“You have a call on line 3 sir, they said it was important,” 

Phillip leaned back in the chair as he rubbed his temple, he had a feeling of who it could be. “Yeah, I know who it is, thanks,” he pulled himself forward from the worn leather chair before stopping his secretary just as she was about to leave, “Mind grabbin’ me a coffee doll? ‘Preciate it,” he thanked her before even getting an answer and winked as she scurried off to get him his coffee. 

A heavy exhale escaped Phillip’s lips as he picked up the phone.

“Phillip,” your voice flowed through the speaker held closely to Graves’ ear.

“Darlin’, whaddya doin’ callin’ me here? I thought we agreed on no calls at work?”

“I just couldn't help it,” you paused waiting to see what he would say but he was silent, “Don't be mad,”

Graves could almost feel your pouting through the phone. His thoughts trailed off as your voice became background noise. All he could think of was how pretty you probably looked right now, lying back on a bed while you talked to him. He hoped your hand was finding its way down between your thighs just to get off on his voice. He hoped you were in lingerie or even better the shirt he had “accidentally” left at your place last night. His dick was throbbing in his pants pushing against the seams at the idea. 

“Are you there?” 

You heard him clear his throat, “Why’d you call?”

“I missed your voice,”

“That so doll?”

“Mhm,” you hummed out, “When can I see you again?”

“Oh hell, I’m not sure,” It was silent as he thought, “I don’t want anyone gettin’ suspicious of me now, I’ll let you know when we can meet again, that sound alright?” 

His voice was low as he spoke, sending a chill down your spine. You need him just as badly as he needed you. “That sounds perfect,” you spoke slowly, “I’ll see you soon sir,” 

“Talk soon darlin’,” the phone clicked, ending the call. 

Graves dropped the phone back on the receiver before dropping his head in his hands. The timing couldn't be more perfect as his secretary knocked before marching in with the coffee, “Here you go sir,” she quickly set the cup down before scurrying out of the office. He spit out a quick ‘thanks’ before refreshing his computer in an attempt to actually get work done today. 

✩｡:*•.─────  ❁ ❁  ─────.•*:｡✩

Graves hopped out of his car and unlocked the front door. As quietly as he tried to sneak in, his wife still was able to hear the faint sound of the door shutting. 

“Phillip? Is that you?” she wiped her hands on her apron and peeked around the corner, “Dinner will be ready soon honey,” she smiled sweetly as she went back to the kitchen. 

“Thanks, I’ll be right there,” he shouted down the hall as he trudged up the stairs with his briefcase. Once he reached his bedroom he tossed the bag on the floor and flopped down on the foot of the bed. 

One hand loosened the tie around his neck while the other scrolled through his texts searching for your name. Fully removing his tie now, he typed out a message hoping you would answer before he had to go eat the meal his wife just cooked. 

Need to see you tonight

He stroked his jaw as he waited for a response, finally a text bubble appeared.

Same spot as usual? 

Phillip Graves liked your message 

“Phillip come eat,” the voice from downstairs almost made him jump as he quickly deleted the text convo and slipped his phone back into his pocket. 

“Comin’,”

✩｡:*•.─────  ❁ ❁  ─────.•*:｡✩

“I’m comin’,” his breath hitched as he continued to rut into you, his pace quickened as he felt you clench around him. “Fuckkk,”

“Oh my god Phillip,” a wave of ecstasy flooded over you as Graves pushed through both of your highs. He pulled out rolling over next to you in a wave of exhaustion, both of you panting heavily trying to catch your breaths. 

A couple of minutes passed before you finally spoke up, “I’m glad you texted me,” you shuffled in the bed as you turned to face him, propping yourself up with your elbow. 

Graves was laying on his back staring at the ceiling, his hands tucked behind his head. “M’glad too,”

“You’re not scared of getting caught, are you?

He extended one of his arms, wrapping it around your shoulder and pulling you closer to lay on his bare chest. “I don't want to think about that right now doll,” his voice was hushed as he closed his eyes, he gave your shoulder a small squeeze as you could feel yourself drifting off laying on his chest. 

Morning came fast. The sun broke through the hotel curtains, as you woke up you rolled over in bed looking for Phillip.

Gone.

Typical, especially considering your relationship. He never was there in the morning, he had a wife and kids at home. You reached over to the nightstand to grab your phone and began skimming through your texts.

Had to head out sorry, gift for you on the counter. Wear it next time I see you. 

You swung your feet off the bed and walked over to the counter finding the Victoria's Secret bag. Tossing the tissue on the floor you pulled out a scarlet red lingerie set, he always liked you in red. You smiled to yourself as you sauntered into the bathroom to try it on, making sure to grab your phone… just in case.

✩｡:*•.─────  ❁ ❁  ─────.•*:｡✩

“Have a good day guys,” Phillip shouted out the window as his kids ran into the school. Just as he was about to pull away his phone dinged.

Thanks for the gift x 

Hope you’re able to see it in person soon: Attachment 1 img.

His head fell back as he stared at the photo on his phone. It was only 9 in the morning and he was itching to see you again. Graves tried to think of a way to respond but couldn't, he was too dizzy from the feeling of all the blood rushing to his dick. 

Taking a big swig of coffee he headed to his office hoping that the work that awaited him would somehow be able to distract him from you. Little did he know that you now lived in his daydreams and it would only get stronger from here. 

₊°✧︡ ˗ ˏ ˋ ♡ ˎˊ ˗

did you guys see how i made it loop hehe

[inconspicious-random-thoughts]

Overlord Power

Sometimes I like to ponder about the Hazbin overlords. How the rise to power and such. This has been bouncing in my head for almost 2 months now.

Rosie was said to be pretty weak in terms of power compare to the other overlords. I think her main strength is she may have the most numbers of loyal souls that follow her. I'm not talking about souls that she owns (tho I think she is one of, if not, the one who owns the most). But souls (cannibal town etc) still follow her leadership despite that they own their own souls. Rosie just has that trusting motherly that breaks down a person defense and just feels safe with, looking pass and getting over the fear of her possibly eating you. So Rosie has the greatest army. One that isn't afraid to tear out your heart and literally eat it. Which is intimidating. As much as I love Rosie and she a formidable opponent but one that can meet their match. She only does not because no one has reason too and don't want to be eaten alive by her loyal supporters.

Not much is known about Zeezi, but I assume her great size came with great physical strength. I think she maybe be the strongest and toughest physically out of all the overlords. She basically a tank. Takes an extraordinary effort to have something pierce her hide. Not to mention she she probably has razor sharp claws and teeth with a powerful jaw and a powerful tail to swipe with.

Alastor is overwhelming strong magic, evasiveness and ruthless reputation. Alastor doesn't fight physically and rely on magic and the ability to evade. With contorting his body to unimaginable and impossible angles while remaining balance and able to slip away and disappear into shadows he near impossible to land a hit on. However if he does fight physically (beyond swinging his microphone) I think he rely on his powerful deer legs more then upper body strength for punches. His kicks are powerful along with stronger jumping ability compared to other sinners. His hands are more for raking his claws at the opponent flesh then have then clench in a fist. I'm guessing he has the least amount of soul unless he can acquire the souls of the overlords he slain but I don't think that's the case. While the Vees like to see numbers, their contracts are more quantity, while Alastors is quality.

I think Alastor rise in power is more brute power while the others is mostly building an empire/territory before climbing steadily higher on status. He doesn't seem to offer a service for souls to be make deals with or be manipulated by (Tho perhaps his broadcast/airwaves can do something but something he doesn't seem to utilized) Souls makes deals with him to hide from others behind his great power if one is on his good graces.

Carmilla is all defensive. At least, her climb to power was. She more than a formidable fighter but she rarely needs to fight and when she does it to defend. She rose to power by taking risk during exterminations and collecting the ultimate weaponry, angelitic steel. She collected them before the angels were called back, so she was the first to fetch them and monopolize the material. Armed with impressive amount of weapons that can permanently kill anyone, its a risk no one dare to take to challenge her. One miscalculation, you are unable to recover from. As the number of souls she owned grew so did her weaponry count. So, I think Carmilla main strength is her intimidating wall of angellist steel that can cause permanent death.

Zestial is a mystery but as he a spider it may be related. I'm mainly guessing his main power beside patience, is poison. Going by he a spider, which can be venomous, but his color scheme screams poison to me. Thanks Disney and other medias that ingrained that color green to associate poison with. He also appears to be very patient. So that another point leaning towards a poison power. He can just wait out for an opportunity to strike and wait for it to take hold.

Tho, I wouldn't be surprised he had some type of illusionary magic to trick people senses with. I don't think he does...just won't be surprised. With his shakespearean speech and I can see him being theatrical, I can see him being live performance theme. (stage illusions-that's where the illusion theme comes in. ) We already have other entertainment overlords. Radio, Television, social media...why not live performance of staged plays? The medium fits for the oldest overlord alive.

I think he would have a great amount of souls with his longevity in Hell helps increase the collection. I don't think he very active with dealings anymore. He still active in politics but beside that, I sort of view him as "retired". Similar in a way of a obscenely rich guy living off his wealth, Zestiel is living off from previous deals and souls and remains more than comfortable. Tho he still dabble here and there but overall just cruising and partaking in politics align with his own interest. Despite being less active compare to the other overlords he still very powerful and most of his "tricks" are forgotten about since he hasn't had the need to use them, granting him his use of his power almost as an element of surprise. For Example, we know how Vox and Alastor powers are like since they use it often, while Zestial is more mysterious.

Velvette I assume is persuasion. Her main role in the Vees is to influence people to the Vees agenda, while along her own personal interest in fashion. I can't guess what her demonic powers would entailed but I imagine it some type of influence. As that's her main role in the Vees, as well as the other Vees have their own way to influence people. Vox hypnotism and Vals pheromones.

Vox is manipulating and monopoly. His electricity ability is strong couple with he can evade with it. But it not what caused him to grow in power, it kept him from bring brought down. He raised by his businessman personality. The ability to charm and sell things like a sleazy car salesman paired with creating product that majority of the population uses (and causing an almost dependency on it and control news outlets) and monopolize it. Using his products paired with his hyponism he has the greatest reach over the pride ring population, which includes souls he doesn't own.

The other part is with the increase reach he had in the pride ring, it increased his ability to surveillance and information gather. Information a very strong asset. Not only can it be used to strategize or decipher patterns on his targets as he surveillance them. Guarded information can be very valuable and traded in deals like we seen with Alastor.

Val is working off people desperation. While all the overlords work off this I think Val pretty much preys on it much more than the other overlords. I think with the other overlords *most of the time*(however, they will play a long con ((Alastor) or if an opportunity falls on their lap, they will go for it) desperate people approach them for deals that they hope is not a bite more than they can chew but Val, seeks them out. Has them sign contracts while under the influence (Perhaps by Vals doing) and desperate for any means to solve their problems and gets them hooked on drugs and pheromones so they stay desperate for him to control.

Unname overlord: I really like his design but I assume he a strong magic user. Not as powerful as Alastor (But I think Alastor "cheated" by having a deal to grant him to be overwhelming in that sense) I lowkey see this overlord as the counterpart of Zeezi. So as she insanely strong physically, the unname guy is strong in magic abilities. He probably has will of wisp themed going by his skeletal and blue flame body.

Husker is easily by gambling. I can see how he can raise to power quickly with strong perception to read people and figure out their tells, and his ability of sleight of hand if he needs to cheat paired with that he mostly likely know how to count cards he was very hard to beat. He came to Hell with nothing but quickly betting his way to survive, turned into more into soul dealing and becoming an overlord. But as quickly as he gained it, he lost it.

I have some passing headcanons about Husk but I think Husk losing streak was something personal he was going through. I don't think anyone really managed to beat Husk if he was on his A game. I think Alastor is good with cards but he didn't beat Husk in cards to win souls. Particularly if Husk own soul was on the line. I think Husk was on friendly terms with Alastor and Husk made the deal with his soul to Alastor.

I think Husk downfall was he lost became heartbroken, or something trigger the memory of it that sent his in a self destructive, overly drunk depressive spiral. Going by the pilot "He lost the ability to love a long time ago" I just don't see how he can lose and lose continually, hand after hand, at his own game and house otherwise. The lost of the person he loved caused him to lose everything else in poor coping skills of self destruction.

I would like to hear other people's thoughts and opinions. Most of this is just me guessing and got the vibe of.

[geekywritings]

“Dance with me.”

Cal Kestis x reader

You convinced the crew to take a small break to attend a local festival for a much deserved downtime. Convincing a certain Jedi to dance with you is much harder, however. Or is it?

_____

„Dance with me.“

You had asked Cal to do a lot of crazy things. To explore unknown territories, to jump across impossibly wide canyons and to take down Imperial bases full of Stormtroopers. And never had he hesitated to say yes. Until now.

He looks at your outstretched hand and swallows hard. “I don’t think…”, he begins and instantly the smile on your face diminishes. As if sensing his discomfort about it, though, you are quick to pat his shoulder.

“No worries. It’s not for everyone.”, you assure him and disappear back into the dancing crowd, joining the masses as they jump, turn and just move around to the heavy beat of the drums.

“Why didn’t you join her?”, Cere asks when she returns with your drinks, clearly having witnessed the scene.

“I have no clue how to dance.”, Cal admits with a shrug. “It wasn’t exactly part of Jedi training.”

Cere chuckles. “It’s not like they are following specific steps.”

“That makes it even harder.”

Cal learned to let go of many things, but the Order and the lifestyle it had taught were also still deeply ingrained. There was always a given path or a pre-defined routine to stick to. This is far beyond his comfort zone. His new mentor stares at him for a few moments and suddenly says: “Time for a lesson.”

“What?”, the red-head asks, hand stopping mid-motion on its way to grab his cup.

“It’s time I teach you something beyond the Order’s knowledge. Stand.”

Slowly he follows, though confusion and hesitation are visible in every movement. Cere moves them into position and then tells him the steps. Easy ones. Basically like walking in a box.

“That’s it?” The surprise is thick in Cal's voice and clearly written all over his face.

“In a way, yes.”

They return to the table and Cal’s eyes slide back to you. Or to where you had been before. Apparently, you have danced your way deeper into the crowd and out of his sight. His attention is drawn back when Greeze shows up with food and he busies himself talking with his found family until his fellow Jedi's return.

You are out of breath, but smiling so brightly that Cal can't help but stare. Have you ever been more beautiful? Hair dishevelled, cheeks flushed and lips drawn into a permanent grin. “Ahh, this was so much fun.”, you sigh, dropping onto the empty seat next to Cal and pouring yourself a drink.

The conversation returns to Greeze’s new recipe ideas and plans on where to go next, while the surrounding festival seems to slow down. Soon, the music is soft and gentle, leaving mostly couples moving to the tune. Cere gives Cal a nudge under the table, motioning toward the marketplace behind you.

He knows what his mentor is asking, but the young man still finds himself swallowing hard. He can do this. He fought Darth Vader and came out alive. Surely, asking you to dance is easier than that.

“Y/N?”

You look up from your almost empty plate and Cal almost loses his voice again.

“Uhm… I know I said no before, but… do you wanna dance now?” Ok, that didn’t come across as confident as he would have liked, but at least the words HAD left him at all. First, he is met with a gasp and seconds later with that happy smile of yours again that gets his heart beating faster. “Yes, of course!”, you agree, instantly pushing your plate aside.

He offers you his hand, before leading you toward the dancing couples, trying to relax his body. He is good with remembering steps, so that's not the issue. But will he do it right? All negative thoughts slip away when you place one of his hands around your waist, before grasping the other one, your bodies pressed together.

With his mind pleasantly blank, Cal begins to move, the steps so much easier to do when he doesn't worry about making a mistake. All he can think of is how you feel in his arms, how happy you look at this moment and how badly he wants this to continue forever. The steps you are taking are slow, barely moving as you just sway to the slow melody. Nobody says a thing, but it is the most comfortable of silences.

Gently, Cal draws you even closer, your foreheads soon resting against each other as you continue the slow dance. “This is the best part of the festival.”, you whisper and Cal’s heart soars. “I didn’t even know you could dance.”

“I didn’t until today.”, he admits with a little grin.

“Well, then you are naturally talented.”, you compliment back, making his lips twitch upward even more.

There won't be many moments like this, you both know. It makes it all the more special amid the war and the constant danger.

“Thank you for taking me here. It means a lot to me.”, you speak again.

“Whatever makes you happy.”, he replies honestly and without hesitation.

Your eyes have this mischievous look in them again. The one that worries and excites the Jedi at the same time.

“Whatever makes me happy? Hmmm… maybe I should utter another wish then.”

He raises an eyebrow at you, expecting something crazy.

“Kiss me.”

Force, how he loves you. And even if you HAD asked for something crazy, he would have jumped into action right away. Everything to make you happy.

“As you wish.”, he whispers, before his lips met yours in a soft kiss. This is perfect. Who knew a dance could ever make you two this happy?

[marshvlovestv]

So basically my Ghosts neurodivergence headcanons at this point are: Sam, ADHD; Pete, autism; Patience, OCD; Sass and Hetty, depression; and Isaac, uhh.... is in Cluster B somewhere (I say vaguely so as not to be misunderstood, but to be clear, personality disorders are really just a collection of deeply ingrained coping mechanisms and the fact that I can recognize this in Isaac is actually something I like about him!). Not to mention, all of the ghosts have PTSD to some extent, if not from traumas that happened in life, then from the memory of actually literally dying.

But the thing I find most interesting has to do with Flower, because her neurodivergence is mythology-specific. She wasn't an addict or anything in life, she just happened to be very, very high when she died, and now, as a ghost, she is permanently under the influence of drugs. Her brain does not work the same way it did when she was alive, and that's just something she has to live with now. It's just a really interesting angle on neurodivergence to me.

It also makes me wonder about Trevor, who died of an overdose. They're not specific about what he took and I don't personally know what kind of shit rich finance bros take, but just based on how he behaves I feel like it's not too much of a stretch to say he's a little more... wired? all the time? than he maybe would have been in life? Idk.

Also Alberta: she didn't seem like she was actually drunk before she got poisoned, but maybe the moonshine worked its way into her system as the strychnine did. Maybe she's a little bit tipsy all the time!

[thisnameisnotspokenfor]

Another chapter snippet pt 2

((your halloween gift sorry...))

“You’re a lot of things but I wouldn’t call selfish one of them.”

“Alright then since you know so well why don’t you tell me- what am I?” 

“Defiant.”

“Defiant?” A strange laugh escaped her as she took a step back from the star. “What in the world makes you think that I, of all people, am defiant?!”

“I think that even though you and so many others tell yourself that you don’t deserve better, you don’t truly believe it. If you did then you wouldn’t want things to change. You wouldn’t hate yourself for not being able to accept it or berate yourself for feeling that you weren’t good enough. You wouldn’t want more not for yourself and others and you know that don’t you? That wish in and of itself is defying the very concept of the strict structure that your society seeks to perpetuate. But the people around you that’s become your world, have done nothing more than disappoint you over and over again so much that you can’t help but fear what would happen if you were to take that final step to leave it all behind. But you know it’s there don’t you?”

Shame filled her as she found herself unable to particularly answer before he continued, “In the king's perfectly crafted world of order you’re the entropy he fears. The one he’s tried so hard to convince the world never existed and that’s why he hates you for it.” He grinned an expression that had failed to match his words. “If I were your king, I’d be terrified of you.”

“If you were my king, I think I’d be a little more than defiant,” she grumbled, earning herself a rather hearty laugh from the star. 

She hadn’t exactly been joking, but hearing his laughter was a nice change of pace, she’d thought as she smiled in spite of herself. 

“I just don’t understand why you would make it sound like a good thing….” she sighed as his laughter died down.

“Isn’t it?” he smiled. “You’re a far more interesting woman than you think.”

Interesting. That was hardly a step up from amusing in her book. In fact, she wasn’t really sure what to make of it- would it have killed him to call her enchanting or tantalizing?! Eh, given what he’d said about the anti-love rules, probably…

But she couldn’t help but feel as if the star were studying her…for what and why was beyond her…perhaps he was still trying to figure out what to make of her.

‘Him and me both,’ she mentally sighed before wrapping the cloak around herself.

“Still…I can’t just up and leave my family like that…I’ve already given them enough problem as is and besides the culture and history of my family’s past and present is permanently ingrained into these lands….if I went to space with you. I could never come back here…”

“Oh? And why’s that?”

She took a deep breath. 

What was the point of keeping all these secrets from him? If he’d ever had something of an ulterior motive then what could she do to stop him? Yes, she knew in the past she’d kept all those secrets from him out of a sense of shame and possibly responsibility given her…father’s job. But with all that gone, why even bother? He was bound to find out the truth at the fair which she was admittedly in no state to attend. If anything it was better to tell him now, so she could at least prepare him.

“Cepheus there’s something I need to tell you…”

“This kingdom, its monarch and its people…in its infancy, it was believed that when our king gained the power to grant wishes, that it attracted attention from elsewhere and monsters descended from the skies. Monsters that only the king could defeat and keep the wishes safe from….and ever since then nearly everyone in this kingdom has had a negative view of stars…

“A courtesy of the king’s imagination, I guess,” he sighed.

“Yes….” she paused, taking in the distinct lack of surprise look on the star’s face. “did…did you know?”

“I mean, sort of? Yes?” he tentatively shrugged. “But in my defense, Velius’s rambling, the king’s law of power exclusivity, and even the entire concept of the wish gardens leave very little to the imagination.”

“You knew about the wish gardens?!” she exclaimed as she flew to her feet. “How?!”

The star hesitated, nearly looking embarrassed before he admitted, “When I granted Julian’s wish he was still lurking around it.”

She gritted her teeth. “I meant to tell you sooner, I really wanted to, given how deeply ingrained those sentiments were into our culture but I just didn’t know how, not when I was the reason why you’d ever be stuck in a place like this in the first place…”

“You didn’t see them, did you?”

“See what?”

“There are several murals scattered around the kingdom, each depicting a battle the king underwent while protecting Rosas from…you know…so I just wanted to warn you about them in case we see them tomorrow…”

“I see…well…” the star started after a moment or so of silence. “I appreciate the warning Asha…”

She cast him a wary glance, unable to fully make out his expression as he stared at the cloudy skies above. “Maybe you shouldn’t go….”

“And let you roam around a new place with more possible assassination attempts?” he shook his head. “Not likely.”

“Cepheus! Didn’t you hear Velius? OR anything I just said about the kingdom’s culture and viewpoint on stars? Someone knows you’re here in Hamlet and they’re actively looking to find you. Not to mention that The king’s going to be unveiling the final mural soon for this thing he claims is going to be the ‘new era of Rosas’, so if there was ever a time for the nobles and common folk to be completely insufferable about the topic, then it’s now!”

“Final mural?” the star repeated. Now he sounded curious.

“Yeah, he claims it’s depicting the most vicious star he ever fought.”

“Did he say the name of it?”

She shook her head, “No, but come to think of it, none of the stars he’s ever defeated in any of the murals have ever been explicitly named, none save for…Alderamin.”

“Alderamin?” the star snorted. “He told you he beat Alderamin? Did he do it with a straight face or was he crying?”

“Well he didn’t tell us himself, but the royal playwright who usually gets all of his content approved by and tailored to the royal family made a whole musical number and play depicting the ordeal…”

“Was it good?”

“The song was admittedly catchy, yes, but I don’t think it’s going to be a tune you should be eager to listen to.”

“Fair enough!” the star happily beamed to her confusion. “But you know, the more I think about it, I don’t think it’s a coincidence that you just so happened to receive an invite the moment I entered your life, do you? I mean the invitation did say that they were looking forward to seeing you and your guest, as in singular and not ‘you and your family’ or ‘you and your guests.’ They’re expecting you to bring someone in particular Asha, and I have a feeling that if you don’t, they’re not going to take too kindly to my absence.”

 Great. So she was damned if she did and damned if she didn’t. What was she going to do?! At the rate at which things were going, she’d be lucky if the king banished her before the yearly storms rolled in!

But come to think of it, the star did have a point… The timing was oddly strange as was the wording… The singularity of ‘guest’ did imply specificity. A specificity that most likely was the result of the royal family’s suspicion rearing its terrible head… She hadn’t known just when, how or why they’d put the puzzle together to figure out something was amiss with Cepheus, but now she was more certain than ever that this wouldn’t end well for anyone, excluding the royal family of course.

[outro-jo]

yellow

pairing: jung jaehyun x reader

type: blurb

summary: jaehyun needed a little tlc and knew just where to go

warnings: literally none this is pure fluff bc i love jaehyun sm

song inspo

masterlist | info

the door opened and shut, echoing throughout the small apartment. it was all jaehyun could do just to shuffle across the floor. his bag and shoes had been discarded at the door and his tired body ached. all he wanted to do was crawl into bed and pass out. with a light push on the door it swung all the way open, making a small noise as it hit the wall, gaining your attention.

“hi, baby.” you pouted at his worn state as he collapsed on top of you, careful not to hurt you though.

you set your phone on the bedside table and laced your fingers through his hair, weaving them in and out of the strands. jaehyun buried his face into your soft stomach and wrapped his arms around you as he tried to make himself comfortable on the bed. 

“rough day, my love?” you asked him softly.

he nodded against you and finally went limp. the empathy you felt for him ached in your chest. though you know he loves his job and wouldn’t trade it for the world, it does come with its downsides. you wished so badly to take away his pain and exhaustion but for now rubbing his head and letting him rest on you would have to do…for now. 

he looked up at you pleadingly, “baby, will you sing to me?”

you let out a laugh, “babe, you’re the singer. not me.”

“i know but i love your voice. it’s so soft and pretty. it relaxes me. please!” jaehyun pokes his lips out at you in a pout, knowing you can’t resist.

“ugh, fine but don’t complain when the neighbors dogs start barking.” you rolled your eyes at him.

beneath you, jaehyun shifted to make himself more comfortable as you sunk down to a laying position and reached over to turn off the bedside lamp. darkness enveloped the room save for the moonlight coming through the window. your voice was low and timid at first as you started to sing your song. the song that jaehyun said reminded him of you. the song he keeps on repeat when he’s away on tour and missing you. he says it’s how he feels about you, that you’re his yellow. it was the song you remember your parents dancing to in the kitchen when you were little. you can still hear your dad singing along with the little radio in the windowsill. this song was permanently ingrained in your memory and seemed to follow you throughout your life and despite jaehyun saying it was for you, you felt it was more for him. 

even in the dark and with his face against your torso, you could feel jaehyun’s smile. his eyes had closed and you could feel his breathing slowing as your voice and repetitive movements on his head lulled him to sleep. doing what he loved may drain him on a daily basis but it didn’t matter much when he had you to replenish him. you were everything he needed to be restored again like the sun. his yellow.

[lunarsilkscreen]

Super Saiyan Sillyness

There's a small plot point in DBS that is really important as to the direction the series is going, but if I acknowledge it; it would be extreme spoiler content. So instead; I'm going to talk about how Super Saiyan works.

In the DragonBall series Ki is a metaphysical concept that can be used to increase your own endurance and kinetic power, without increasing your mass.

Originally, this was a small thing used by characters to shoot out magical bursts like a firearm, without a weapon. Allowing a Martial Artists to develop ranged attacks without weaponry.

As we get to DBZ however; this Ki energy becomes a way to increase your physical strength and endurance. Initially by increasing your muscle mass, and later without the forced muscle expansion that causes body degradation and extreme exhaustion.

This culminates in the Battle of Goku vs Frieza, where along with his innate spaceman genetics; Goku figures out how to use this Ki, along with his anger to transform into a super Saiyan.

What this is, is a focused version of abilities before this, developed by Roshi and King Kai. King Kai's variant being the most recognizable; Kaio Ken.

Kaio Ken, however; like the bulking Ki causes extreme wear and tear on the body. And so the Super Saiyans rarely use it after learning how to become super Saiyan.

Now, SS isn't the only type of super transformation available to denizens of Akira Toriyama's world. Frieza species seems to be able to "Go Gold" as well. Which is a full body transformation.

Similar to Super Saiyan 4 in the DBGT series, which explored the vastness of space after turning Goku into a child.

Saiyans also have a kind of werewolf transformation during the full moon, where they can't control their emotions.

This however is shown to be destructive, and akin to the muscle expansion techniques as it increases Mass equivalent to the energy gained.

The Namekians have a similar transformation showcases by Lord Slug and Orange Piccolo, which has all the same drawbacks.

What this means; is because Saiyans and Namekians and Frezians share these similar transformations and Ki generation; that these techniques should be available to every race and species.

It's just that some cultures are more ingrained with wanting to learn how to fight gooder. Or are Frieza and just Tyrants.

Vegeta and Frieza show a disdain for species that they previously believed were "inferior races". Frieza towards all Saiyans, and Vegeta to his Half-blood nephew: Gohan. Who display a completely different form of Saiyan transformation that isn't SSJ2 but is similar in power level. Dubbed Mystic Saiyan due to its creation by the influence from Supreme Kai's Magic.

But here's where it's interesting to me. As we get to Super Saiyan God mode, which is what the *real* SS legend is based on, and the Saiyan race had become extremely weak in comparison to their former abilities before the Friezers turned them into a caste of warrior conquerer slaves. Meaning they had forgotten nearly all of their *real* combat techniques that they thought made them a "superior race."

But this Super Saiyan God mode, which then can be focused into what's known as Super Saiyan Blue; demonstrates the use of Ki and it's reflection on tbe visible light spectrum.

Ki can be used raw to empower a person, but because it's non focused it will cause the body to undergo a temporary extreme physical transformation.

This is alleviated somewhat with the Kaio-Ken technique which focuses the ki to a sharper point, and allows for an exponential increase in comparison to the regular Ki power up, but has the *same* draw backs at higher levels.

Then we get to a kind of Middle point. Frieza has several forms before Gold, but they seem to be more able to limit their physical transformation to use the power gain more effectively.

In fact; Friezas stay in their supposed final form after entering permanently, and then have more forms to go, and Unlike Uzaro Form and Super Namekian form, retain a standard small humanoid size.

And here's where it gets interesting; these different forms and techniques can be combined or used interchangeably to achieve the same or similar results .

In DB:GT; Super Saiyan 4 is achieved by entering Uzaro Form, Mastering it, Turning Super while in that form, and then supressing the Ki and physical transformation to bring the user back to typical humanoid size.

With their body showcasing red fur growth over their body.

This indicates that Super Uzaro, Namek, and Frieza all use a similar method in order to achieve levels that are past Super Saiyan 3 levels.

SS3 is a unique form, because while still being Super Saiyan, it amps up the physical form of the user. It still increases the physical mass. Not only appearing to lengthen the hair follicles (which is probably just run-off ki, as the user returns to normal after use)

But bulking up as with the previous forms drawbacks.

Which means that this Bulking is the habit that most life forms exhibit when they increase their key until they figure out how to shift better.

Basically, SS3 is the Roshi Technique combined with SS transformation. And SS2 focuses the energy of SS1 better, because it doesn't exhibit the bulking drawback.

This bulking drawback is visible when Vegeta and Trunks attain their own post Super Saiyan forms as well. Vegeta commenting; "You're still using that bulky form?" At one point indicating to Trunks that he is doing it wrong.

Their SS2 forms included the bulking drawback that Goku's didn't exhibit.

So when we get to SS:God form; this looks similar to Kaio Ken, with it's red glow. Indicated a compressed form of energy, that can then be compressed into Super Saiyan Blue.

Vegeta demonstrated this with his Super Saiyan Prince form. As his eyes sparkle along the colored light spectrum indicating the varying power levels not visible in the hair.

This is different but similar to the SS4 shown in GT. Instead of the Ki run off coming from the tops of their heads as in the gold super Saiyan forms, the red ki comes out of the hair follicles across their body and from their regrown Saiyan monkey tails.

This is a strange transformation as it looks like a form similar to Ultra Instinct combined with a red variant of super Saiyan.

More on this; Ultra Instinct looks like base form. Because there is no bulking, there is no visible Ki generation at the hair follicles. Just a black-light aura.

This is because the Ki is focused to a point where it is no longer emitting from the visible light spectrum.

The drawbacks with UI seem similar to Uzaro and Kaio Ken form however. As UI takes an extreme toll on the body, and nearly loses concious control. Any less control, and it's conceivable Goku could become a mindless destructive force like Uzaro or Brolly.

Brolly is a Super Saiyan who can't control his super Saiyan powers due to extreme neglect and trauma induced by the former Saiyan culture and lifestyle. Which indicates a connection between Super Saiyan Brolly, UI, and Uzaro. SS Brolly forms (also shared by Kefla from Uni6) also showcases a greenish aura.

Demonstrating that there are different ways that different people can utilize the SS transformation and these other techniques.

What this means is that Uni7 UI Goku has potentially become stronger than DB:GT(unnumbered uni) Goku. Because he doesn't have Color inconsistencies. SS4 Goku and Vegeta in comparison, while having black hair, emit the Red Ki from their body hair, and red from their eyes, similar to Vegeta's Super Princess. SSJ4 also includes slight bulking.

However, UI has that extreme Drawback where once you've used up your energy, that's it until you take a long rest.

UI also seems different from Super Forms as you can't harness your emotional state, as one is often shown doing when they initially enter that state.

And Uni6 Saiyans, with the exceot of Vegeta's protege, entering it at will without emotion.

Hinting that the emotional burst is good to learn how to control larger amounts of Ki, but not good at focusing it down to the single point required of UI.

The SS4 Saiyan's also have a "Limit Breaker" similar to that of entering SS:God Mode. which enables them to use their transformation at will, unlike before which required becoming Uzaro, loosing control, regaining control, become super Uzaro, and then sustaining that. And maintaining it longer than 5 minutes.

Which suggests the forms are not unique to the method of transformation.

With Videl standing in for an extra Saiyan (Despite being Preggers) this also suggests that you simply need multiple people whose combined energy exceeds a certain amount, and isn't generically limited to Saiyan's.

This correlates with the other [Super Transformations] shown in the series as a whole.

What they tend to forget, is that despite being Human, Videl is one of the strongest Humans on Earth. Rivaling only Krillin, who isn't as strong as Goku simply because he doesn't have a single mind focused on becoming stronger. Also, unlike Goku, who inherited land and money from King Yama, actually needs to work for a living.

Goku isn't the strongest because he's a Saiyan either. Even Vegeta believed for a while that Goku was a low-tier saiyan incapable of meeting, much less exceeding the power level of a prince like himself.

He's the strongest because he's Goku.

This brings me to the end of this with one final observation; Goku and Trunks in Uni7. Who become Super Saiyan at will naturally. Without training, without really knowing what it is.

They're not just expanded power level from epigenetics, they have expanded powers because of the same technique that gives Goku and Vegeta SS:God powers.

Because it's the same technique showcased by Korin, Kami, Guru, and the Kai's, in "unlocking a person's potential".

Just a weaker form since a single person would only be able emit so much energy. Achieving SS:God and SS4:LB and the [Ki Expansion] technique most therefore be the same, becoming stronger the more Ki you pump into the recipient.

Ergo; Trunks and Goten have high power levels because of... Well... All that energy and training happening during the Buu saga...

[hana-no-seiiki]

a/n: first full genshin fic in tumblr let’s go.

we’ve had god readers but what about god complex reader who’s a smartass.

without further ado i present to you the flowers of evil au! (which i will actually explain more in another post but for now have this)

divider by omiyours!

no beta read we die like rukkhadevata’s god friends

summary: reader is basically wanderer but a slut

cw/tw: self indulgent, wish fulfillment, manipulative! reader, asshat/arrogant! reader, implied noncon (reader gets drunk), alhaitham being incredibly horny, alhaitham being a homewrecker, kaveh doesn’t have any self esteem, very snobby ass intellectualism, mary sue/gary stu reader.

pairings: yandere! al-haitham x spy! reader x yandere! kaveh x ? ? ?

“RED ROSES BURN MY EYES”

V O L U M E ( I )

[Y/N] [L/N] is the epitome of perfection. Even amongst the scholars that excelled in their fields, and the sages that basically ruled over the Akademiya. [Y/N] always managed to stand out.

Part of that is what attracted Al-Haitham. They were intelligent, and quick-witted. He found himself effortlessly engaging in conversation for hours when it came to their banters. Everything he was looking for in a partner — both in academics, romantic and sexual side of things — could be found in [Y/N].

But there were two things he had to consider.

The first thing was their awful(ly hot) god complex.

“Told you I’d be correct.” [Y/N] sat atop his desk. Their legs crossed, practically begging to be ripped apart as the scribe fantasized of bending them over the nth time that day.

Their intoxicatingly sweet yet mature scent — of roses and old books — wafted through the air and into his nostrils. It took all he had to not pin them on his table so that he could breathe it in. He wanted their scent to be permanently ingrained within his mind like the languages and manuscripts he’d memorized to heart.

But alas he had to at least maintain a modicum of sanity and control over his hormones. He replied, trying to edge away from their form, “You don’t have to rub it in my face, [L/N].”

But it was getting rather hard when they began leaning over “Fair is fair, Scribe. You get to gloat when you win, and I as well during the many triumphs I have over you. So, what are you supposed to say in this situation?”

“I was wrong to go against your judgement.”

You poke his nose. A mocking grin on your disgustingly pretty features, “I knew you had it in you.”

He could tolerate the first thing. In fact, he found it attractive at times. It’s what attracted him to the idea of dating them; owning them, the desire to rip that smug look on their face. To make their face contort to that of unfettered desire. To bring them down and off their high horse and instead kneeling — yearning for his touch, his lips, his cock.

The second thing was the fact that they were dating his roommate. That darned Kaveh.

“My love.” Al-Haitham could swear Kaveh smirked at him as the latter mouthed his petname for you.

“You’re late.”

“They’re sending me away for a project.”

“What?” Oh, [Y/N]’s concerned face however? Hurt even more. The palpable love between the couple made him want crush the book within his hands and throw its remains across the library. He’d tell you two to get a room if he didn’t want eyes on you 24/7.

“It’s just another construction. I’ll be back soon.”

“Stay safe.”

Al-Haitham couldn’t help but stare at your back while the two of you left him alone.

Was that a smile - no - a smirk on your features?

It was a mistake on your part. You should have known not to get drunk on enemy territory.

But your one success as a spy finally came. You had to celebrate somehow, right?

Wrong.

In your mistake in judgement you found yourself tangled with Al-Haitham of all people. How’d he even get drunk enough to sleep with you anyways? He couldn’t have purposely have sex with you, could he? All your interactions have been those of rivals and friends at most.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Was it that obvious?”

“We’re adults [L/N]. You don’t have to act like this.” Stop acting like this. Al-Haitham wanted to scream. He couldn’t take it anymore. He missed your presence so dearly. If only you could see the mess that had been his room and office.

“Exactly. Adults. I can make my own choices and I choose not to interact with you. I’m doing this for the sake of staying civil. For Kaveh.”

“I’ll tell him about your lord.” You paused.

No, you couldn’t have. Your [e/c] orbs slowly turned a velvet red while he continued his speech. Were you that careless? Were the words your co-workers used to describe you true?

That you were an absolutely useless, reckless piece of rot?

“The way you screamed his name while I—“

His? Ah, so he didn’t know their name. You probably just screamed My Lord and he automatically assumed…

He’s bluffing.

“Then go ahead.” You couldn’t help but grin knowing that you finally didn’t mess up in a mission. So what if he said those words to Kaveh, your mission to distract the Light of Kshahrewar had been a success. All you needed was to leave once everything had been finalized and your god had been reborn. “This may not be Focalors’s nation, but this sort of conduct could get you in jail, Scibe.”

“By who? Cyno hates me, sure. But if there’s one person he loathes more than me it’s you.”

“We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

“No, [Y/N]. We’ll talk about this now.”

“Why are you so persistent—“

“Because I love you!”

Al-Haitham grabbed unto your face, squeezing so tightly you knew it’d bruise, “I think about you every single day, hour, minute — every damn second even. I can’t get a single paper fully transcribed because I always end up writing your name over and over again as if I’ll forget it any second.”

“That’s impossible. You can’t love me. No. That isn’t supposed to happen.”

“[L/N]. I know you’re a skeptic but doubting my feelings is—“

“You were never my target.”

Al-Haitham gasped as red petals enveloped his entire body.

“My lord. May you forgive this forsaken soul. Grant this servant a place beside your holy being as you ascend—“

His throat, his nose, even his eyes — all burnt under the heavy scent of roses.

“and accept this sacrifice.”

You looked at him solemnly. If only you weren’t so incompetent, he wouldn’t have been roped into this.

Your time with the roommates was fun while it lasted.

“Oh Lord of Flowers.”

[FOOTNOTE:]

In the end, [Y/N] could not kill him. It was always like this. Their missions always went wrong. It’s anyone guess really — why they haven’t been thrown away by their lord. They were defective at best. Completely useless at worst.

So they were commanded to be a honey trap. Someone made to lure in and distract an assigned target while the rest of the Zuhur, came in to assassinate and/or thieve around.

“Kaveh.” You greeted. Shit, you shouldn’t have gone back to his place to check for lose ends. Wasn’t he supposed to be away anyhow? What was he doing in the Akademiya?

“Where are you going?”

“I—I’m leaving.” You had recently finished drugging Al-Haitham and sending him to the sages to deal with. Time was ticking, and you had to be there for when your new master breathes his first as a brand new god. “to get some samples for research. Meet up with the Forest Rangers and all that.”

“Does lying to me get you off or something?” Kaveh stopped you in your tracks, he didn’t have to hold you still, the hurt in his voice was enough.“I know about it. About your affair with Haitham.”

“Then—“

“And I’m fine with it.”

“What?”

“You- You can meet up with him all you like. I already knew someone like me couldn’t possibly satisfy a being such as you.”

“Just don’t leave me ever. Please?”

“Kaveh . . .”

“I promise to never get between you guys. I swear I-I’m not jealous at all. You deserve to receive all the love you can get.”

“Kaveh!” You cried. Who was this person? The Kaveh you knew was loud and boisterous. In fact, you used him and Al-Haitham as a basis to create [Y/N]. The prodigy of the Akademiya.

Who was this weak, broken person that trembled in front of you.

“You deserve someone better than me, alright? Not the other way around.”

“What…?”

“Stay safe and get as far away as you can from the Grand Sage in the next few weeks alright?” You continued your journey away, only stopping to say a few words, “I love you. Truly.”

“If you love me, why would leave me?!”

“I have to.” You clenched your hands, and disappeared.

“(Wardati) وردتي … “

TRANSLATIONS:

flowers = zuhur

وردتي = my rose

[shatterinseconds]

Fire

Keithtober '23 week 2

The fire crackles in front of them. 

It took Keith two attempts for the sparks to catch on some dry twigs they collected from their rough landings. It may be a small start, but at this point, Keith is grateful that he and Lance crash landed on a forested planet and not in an arctic zone. And that the skills he learned, needing to start fires for the cold nights in the desert when the burner in his shack acted up, remained ingrained in him.

“When do you think they’ll come for us?” Lance asks as he strokes the fire. An emergency blanket is wrapped around his shoulders.

“Probably another hour,” Keith guesses, staring up at the fading twin suns. They landed not more than thirty minutes ago but he worries about the dark. Who knows what crawls in the night around here. “They still have to get here.”   

He and Lance were on patrol, scouting out this unknown planet that popped up on the castle-ship’s long range radar. No information was found in the Altean database and they had no way of knowing if it was occupied by the Galra—though the likelihood was high. Hiding behind one of the larger moons, its magnetic core throwing off their sensors, a Galra cruiser shot them down by surprise. Their comms fried instantly, their lions inactive. Hopefully by not reporting at check-in time, it spurred the rest of their team into immediate action.

Now they rest against the blue lion’s side. Keith rests his bayard on his lap, keeping watch on the trees. Lance has his gun propped beside him within immediate reach. But his manner is much more relaxed, pressed up against Keith’s side as he drapes the blanket over Keith’s shoulders too. It’s not that big so they snuggle close.

A dried patch of blood crusts on Lance’s forehead under his hair. It bled fast, being a head wound, but is a minor gash. One that won’t even need stitches. Keith is more worried about a possible concussion, but Lance has been fairing fine, still able to needle and tease him. 

Sighing, Lance throws his poker stick down, clenching his hands in his lap. “What if they don’t come?” 

Keith turns his head slightly, catching Lance’s gaze. “That’s not really a scenario I want to consider.” No matter how impossible it would be. They’ll come; he knows it.

“It might not be too bad,” Lance responds lightly, “I was thinking about how nice of a spot this would be.”

“Did you hit your head harder than I thought?”

Lance shakes his head. “I’m serious. We could build a nice little shack over there.” He gestures to the roughed-up clearing the lions’ descent created. “Tend to a garden and grow weird alien flora.” Lance moves his attention back towards Keith, a glimmer of something in his eyes. “Just the two of us. Away from everything.”

Keith is silent for a moment and finally says, a little hesitant, “Is that your dream, for after the war?”

Lance smiles at him, a soft one. “How’d you guess?”

“It sounded too nice to be thought of on the spot.”

“Sometimes,” Lance starts to explain as he leans in, like this is a secret to be shared only with Keith though no other person is around and their lions are offline. “I like to imagine what it’ll be like when we defeat the Galra Empire. Gives me something tangible to look forward to.”

Whether the hand-built shack and alien plants are a permanent fixture of Lance’s imaginative future, the underlying message, Keith understands, will forever remain unchangeable. Lance wants to build a home with him. Keith blinks back a sudden push of tears. He interlocks his hand with Lance’s, squeezing once in approval of his plan. “They’ll come for us. We’ll survive.” Survive all of it, not just today.

Lance dips his head into the crook of Keith’s neck, curling into him. “I plan to,” Lance says and it’s the easiest thing Keith has ever believed in.

[denybunnyforgood]

How often does edgebunny edge? I saw it doesn't get to cum, and I like that it's specifically to make its life worse, not better, but that makes me wonder if it edges all the time to make but cumming harder, or rarely because edging can give it pleasure.

its answer isn't very inherently interesting here unfortunately--a lot of things it does in its life are pretty systematized or habitualized in some way because it takes immense discipline to do something you know will make your life worse. But despite edging being rather central (though it isn't the most central thing, it's just tumblr won't let it speak publicly abt its gender in full so w/e, trying to make a second account on bdsmlr where it can talk abt other things) to its whole deal, the only habit it has ingrained is it stops pretty soon after it reaches the edge and it can feel that thrum inside its tummy climbing up its chest, like that "God if you let me cum to anything let it be this" kinda feeling.

When it comes to when it edges it just does it whenever it really wants to. The main reason is that whenever it does stop right at that thrum, it's consistently a net negative, and that thrum is only possible when it's in a particular kind of mood.

The only way really that it can become a net positive is if it stays in the pleasure for long enough that it outweighs the tight, intense discomfort in its hips radiating through itself that comes when it denies itself. But because it doesn't do that there's very little need for any rules or discipline or habit, aside from just making sure it stops when it reaches that point of maximum need.

How frequent "whenever it feels like it" is depends on its situation. Like right now it hasn't been able to post for a while because it and its loved ones ended up getting chased out of a home (again) and being unhoused for a while doesn't really spare the thrum-potential, even with permanent denial. Like it always experiences this ambient yearning for trying to cum but it's comparatively subdued when there's hardship of the uninteresting variety in its life.

You might think that being born to have a worse life is easy because it's so easy for life to punish you, but the truth is that there are interesting and uninteresting ways to have a terrible life and only the former is worthwhile.

But your question is prob abt like, USUALLY how frequent is it? (it's getting to your question the long way, yes), and it would say probably like once a day on average.

it realizes this is getting long-winded but just to reflect on that some and hopefully make this answer interesting, it's written before abt the conceptual framework it has for orgasms. If the concept 'orgasm' marks out those desirable climactic sexual experiences, then the sensation that we refer to as an orgasm should be very different for everyone. For instance, what if you like and really want the intimacy of playing and being close to someone, and that's the height of the experience for you? Can't that be an orgasm instead of the specific rush of dopamine we tend to associate the concept with?

it was born an object whose pleasure has zero moral worth, but it being violated in interesting ways, being denied right at the edge, being brought to tears, having its throat brutalized until it starts heaving, these do add moral value to the world in all kinds of ways. And so those are the most desirable experiences. So when it used to have the kinds of orgasms people had, those were fake orgasms. it used to have those twice a week, and these real orgasms are literally more than one per day. For people they're real orgasms but for it they're fake orgasms. The real orgasms are those violations, denials, sobs and throatgasms. And it isn't fair if the people who violate it have real orgasms and it has a fake one. They're making themselves vulnerable to it and it's being insincere.

That's a huge part of why it's so absurdly important to it that when it has sex it does whatever it can to make sure it doesn't enjoy it and that what it wants or what it's okay with doesn't matter. it wants the experience to be authentic, and if it's pretending to be a person when its partner isn't pretending to be something they're not, that's not fair to them and that's not something they'd consent to.

And the fact that these real orgasms are so much more frequent and forthcoming than fake orgasms is just one of those small pieces of evidence it holds onto to affirm itself. it often has doubts, as many do abt their identity, and that can be dangerous because the moment it isn't convinced it's morally obligated to go down this route it'll spend years trying to achieve personhood.

Holding onto these little pieces of evidence is one of the ways it affirms its objecthood so it can keep nurturing it. It's not its main method, that would be surrounding itself with peers who understand and do what needs to be done when it has its...moments of doubt, but even this tertiary method is effective and has positive side effects.

Okay hopefully that's answered your question and more? But it understands if this ramble left you more questions and it's happy to answer. Actually typing this did do something for it so it'll edge right now :)

TL;DR: Nothing interesting rly just whenever it feels like it, which is once a day average.

[awkwardsaweeb]

Salacious Inclinations

Pairing: Che’nya/reader

Tags: Fem!reader, Fingering, oral(Fem receiving), blood, biting, praise, degradation, Exhibitionalism

Word Count: 2,204

Your late evenings in the library are typically spent in solitary, tucked away in some quiet, cubical-like corner to seal yourself away in. You preferred it this way, blanketed in the overwhelming smell of the untouched tomes and the distant sounds of turning pages and scraping graphite. Your little nook was incredibly comforting, soaking in the warm amber light of the dingy flickering bulbs above, a sharp contrast to the dreary gray sky. The soft patters of rain against glass provided a special kind of sensory satisfaction that brought you so close to the precipice of peace that you could feel yourself drift ever closer to the edge of sleep.

The surface of your table has been utterly consumed by books, stacks of material you’d haphazardly grabbed at the mere mention of triens paper assignment, desperate for any sentence that could boost your score.

Amidst the peace you found teetering between stages of REM, you'd been brought back to the present by the cloudy sounds of giggling. They were distant at the moment, straining to really hear it. It was soft and airy, with almost a disembodied tone to it, like music playing from a waterlogged speaker. As it made its way closer to your area, a wave of mischief seemed to trail behind it, bouncing in and out of reality with every disturbance.

You tensed as it grew ever closer, seemingly just around the corner. This world was filled with all sorts of things that simply made no sense at all; this rule not only followed the logic but the people as well. As the soft giggles were just on the other side of the bookcase to your left, you braced yourself for yet another mess to clean up, possibly the only consistency of your time here. Anxiously eying the edge of the bookcase, your eyes strained in concentration, the joyful noise stopping abruptly at the moment that what should have been a body made its way into your space.

That's odd.

Your nerves are still on high; the instinct to remain suspicious is now permanently ingrained in your psyche from your time here—eyes scanning desperately at your surroundings, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of anything.

Your heart nearly leaps out from the cage of your chest, a cold sweat immediately coating your skin, and a large hand with deft, delicate fingers clasped tightly over your mouth. A suppressed shriek rips its way from your throat, the air rippling the skin as a few bubbles of air break past the seal. A soft “Boo” having been whispered into your ear, soon followed by the sporadic untuned melody of giggles.

You’re overcome with immediate irritation, having just now figured out precisely who the walking nuisance is.

Che’nya.

You mentally chastise yourself for not realizing sooner, having grown accustomed to the sound of the beast man that liked to chase your heels.

Reaching up, you mean to grasp at his wrist to yank it away, only for the pressure and the man to disappear in your grasp. Great. Sucking in a sudden breath at the surprising feeling of fingertips lightly grazing up the side of your thigh, lightly playing with the hem of your skirt. He idly rolled it between the pads of his fingers as if testing the fabric.

“Did you miss me?” he speaks behind you, his voice once more becoming level with your left ear, “Because I have certainly missed you.” His following sentence is mumbled, so close that you could feel his hot breath puff against your throat and his nose ever so slightly brush against your hair. His hand slowly begins to move again, sliding below the fabric as he encroaches onto the heated space between your thighs. Your breath hitched and staggered as his knuckles grazed against the covered lips of your core, “Especially after the last time.” Your mind quickly flashes back to about a month ago; the tea time you'd had with Riddle had ended, and as you made your way back through the high hedges of roses. You’d been abruptly yanked from the trail behind an out-of-place tree as Che’nya had descended upon you. He’d taken you then, panties stretched out against your rocking ankles and your hands scraping desperately against the cutting bark as you’d tried desperately to keep your knees from buckling. Che’nya roughly thrusting into you from behind without a consequential thought in his head.

Your face heats, Unable to force it down in the wake of the slowly growing pressure. Even though you still can't see him, his touch is incredibly present as he slowly works against the soft cotton fabric.

“My my,” he giggles, “Already so sticky for me. Have you been eager for my return? Hmm?”.

Even though he asked you a question, you can feel your ability to respond quickly leaving you as your mouth begins to fill with sand and your tongue starts to feel like it’s swollen enough to fill your mouth completely. It’s not as if he is really expecting an answer anyway.

His fingers slowly hook around the crotch of the material and pull it aside, his fingers slowly working against the swelling flesh before using his middle finger to part your folds, gliding through your slick. You catch a moan in your throat, still vaguely aware of the people within your relative proximity. His fingers trail around your labia, sliding up to twirl around the bud at the top of your clit. The intense pulse that follows makes your knees jerk, nearly smacking the bottom of the table as you struggle to contain yourself.

“Why bother muffling your moans, I’ve barely touched you, and you’re already so aroused.” His middle finger slides back down, circling the ring of muscles at your entrance before breaking the seal and gliding right in. Arching your back against the hardwood of your chair and your arms shooting out in front of you to find purchase against the hard edge of the table, A whiney call of his name slides from your lips. Schooling yourself by pinning your bottom lip between your teeth, you try in vain to keep the noises down. “ Go ahead, let them know what a whore you are.” he moves to your other ear. “Getting off on being fucked in public, on being my good girl.”. You can almost see his Cheshire grin split his face in two as the sharp points of his canines graze along the skin of your throat.

Enough pressure to indent the skin but just short of splitting it open.

“Please,” you ask, it's soft and barely there, but he hears it.

“Please, what kitten? I’m afraid I don't know what you are asking for.” He can be such a dick.

His response is followed by another finger joining the first, his pace picking up substantially as a wet slosh follows in its wake.Your knees begin to tremble, and paranoia of the noise enticing the curiosity of others has been pushed to the back of your mind in lew of chasing something else.

“Please,” you start, swallowing down a moan before continuing, “ Make me come.”

“Well, aren't you a needy little thing today” Poking his tongue from between his lips, he drags it up the shell of your ear; His breath is scorching as it further works to fog your mind. “But since you’ve asked so nicely..” He trails off.

Suddenly he’s gone, his fingers quickly disappearing from your depths, and the warmth of his lurking form vanishing. It takes you a moment to collect what little remains of your mind to realize the situation as a pent-up sob leaves you. “Wait, what-” and immediately, a pang of pleasure shoots straight through you, rattling your spine and forcing your hands to slap over your mouth to avoid attracting a fellow student.

Che’nya has appeared below the table, head resting between your open thighs with the smuggest grin you have yet to see grace his features.He’d licked a solid strip up the length of your core, saliva hot and tongue thick as the drag of the muscle hit all of the nerves along the surface. He stops as he waits for you to make eye contact with him again, biding his time by nibbling lightly at the skin of your thigh. You refuse, however, getting woefully frustrated with this ongoing game that only he seems to be in on. A sharp pain hit you soon after, the suddenness making your leg lock in response, eyes shooting down to make contact with the best man. He pulls his teeth from the meat of your thigh, a couple of droplets of blood following the polished enamel as the rivulets dribble down the skin.

A couple of droplets fall free onto the old scuffed wooden boards below before he lets his tongue loose once more. Bringing it along the fresh wound, he tries to soothe the pain in faux worry followed by a light chastising of “Pay attention.” You’re irritated and frustrated but more than willing to put your upset on the back burner for now. You’ll get him back eventually. Stiffly nodding your head, you offer a modest “fine” in response as you keep his gaze.

His teeth are back out in the open as he smiles, a tinged film now covering them in a sheer glow of gore. He quickly gets back on task, his fingers reappearing to make the shape of a “V” as they slide against your outer lips, opening you wide for his viewing pleasure. His right hand finds purchase against the top of your left thigh, sliding against the blood and leaving a tacky smear in his grasp. His grip is tight as he reassures your open position, coming in close to give himself a deep inhale of your arousal.

Bringing his mouth back against your clit, slow up and down licks of his tongue, turning the flesh around with his tongue. He’s gentle but firm, his tongue making quick work of the slick that gathered between your thighs, an audible swallow following the swirl against your entrance. He pushes the hot muscles past the opening as he sinks further into your depths. His tongue isn't particularly long, but it’s wide and thick, folding slightly as he works against the spongy walls inside of you. He works hard to expand and retract his tongue as it wriggles around the gooey heat of your cunt, bringing the fingers that held the flesh open up to begin twirling against your bud. It’s gotten much harder to breathe, your chest is hot, and your face and legs begin to tingle as your stomach tightens. Your hands move from the table's edge to tangle into the lavender locks atop his head, twirling the strands between your fingers as they slide far enough down to the roots to tether yourself to him. A jovial chuckle leaves his lips as it provides a tinge of vibration to the sensitive skin in his mouth.

Closing his lips around the heated swollen flesh, he begins to suck, the wet seal coupled with the grind of his tongue fucking into the squishy textured heat of your canal, quickly yanking you over to the edge, the threat of falling over mere moments away. The quiet trail of swears and pleas spill from your lips like a kettle boiling over onto the stove. Very similarly, your end is followed by a shout and uncontrollable spill of your juices amid your orgasm. Your thighs convulse around his head as he scoops up the flemy release, swallowing the globs down eagerly.

When he pulls away, the flush of his face matches yours, a rich color filling the apples of his cheeks and the darkened depths of your eyes.

“That's my good girl, " he praises, slowly easing you back down from your high as he lightly drags his hands along your body, waist, hips, and thighs. Delivering one more soft kiss to your bud, he pulls away, but not before promising to see you later on in the evening to finish what he’s started. He’s been shooed away, slowly fading into the realm of invisibility by the quick incoming steps of someone who had heard your cry. He winks at you once more before he’s completely gone, vanishing just in time as the worried body of your friend Deuce comes around the corner.

“Are you alright?” he asks in a bit of a panic as his skin flickers back and forth over your area of rest before noticing the wound on your leg. Eyes following the direction of his eyes, you quickly slap your hand over the mark. “You're bleeding!” He cries, about to step forward to help you.

Throwing your hand out in front of yourself, you stop him. “NO!” you cry, an awkward chuckle following, your face somehow feeling even hotter. “ I’m alright! I think I just pricked myself on a nail or something”. You hope he buys your excuse, Still dawning a look of doubt.

More than anything, you hope he hadn't noticed the defined shape of teeth, wishing above all else that the veil of blood had covered it.

“Yeah, sure,” he starts. “A nail..”

User Tags:

@simp346

[queer-here-and-in-fear]

hey. pspspsps if you see this stop what you're doing and go watch diminish. now. here are the pros:

not a pro but a quick note: this is written. some people believe its real but this is like. a story.

story about grieving guy playing a video game that was a last gift for him. its a rage game. chaos ensues.

unfiction type style without jumpscares. theres still horror but you never are like. shaking/crying about it its just creepy.

as somebody with MAJOR watching block you never get it with this series cause it does just feel like any lets play.

as said its formatted like a lets play and gets the vibe good.

you will get attached to the characters. its unavoidable. yes even the dead ones.

as somebody still in very deep in grief after my dad died, this is a series about grief that gets grief RIGHT. i understood this main character on a personal level it was intense.

there are so many moments that are permanently ingrained in my brain for how fucking insane they are. i have not watched this series in months.

you will be in tears when shit gets sad or intense, yes, but you will also be uncontrollably cackling with glee when things go good.

furry. main character is a grey wolf. his name is apollo

also ten million greek mythology references

quotes under the cut bc this is long

"ooh look menu.. oh! soup of the day, its a.. oh. its literally a soup of the day :D"

"i am going zen mode. *makes jump* mm zen. my name is. zen? z and uh.. *struggling on new jump* two othter letters.. *fails* OH MY G-"

"oh goddamnit its a carrot. of course this is a carrot."

"*trying so hard not to curse.* BULLS. IN MY SOCKS.. ANKLES PERHAPS"

"no dont look at me like that im trying im trying so hard im sorry ok? *man says to character he is piloting in platformer*"

"ive done it to short.. ive done it too far... goldilocks."

"so logically.. it should seem.. the next course of action is to get that gun."

[aspenwritesstuff]

prev | masterlist | next

warnings: MC was in a car accident, blood (mentioned, not too terribly graphic), surgical scars, broken bones, medical setting, themes of depression throughout (self-neglect, lots of dark thoughts), isolation (self-imposed), threat of institutionalization, ANGST (little to no joy to be found in this chapter, I'm afraid), a lot of background/world building

wc: 10.5k (I'm sorry/You're welcome?)

"You felt your bruised heart crack further and wondered if it, too, had an ugly, angry, puckered scar."

a/n: welcome to the first part of "Desderium." I hope that you enjoy reading, though this part is sorely lacking in the happiness department. I'm a bit nervous, if I'm being completely honest, to share this with anyone. This work has been a driving force for me lately, something I find myself drawn to work on rather than having to drag my feet to do so. I think that's due to how much of myself I'm scattering amongst the words on the page. It's quite a bit darker and wordier than my released works up until now. So, as always, feedback is appreciated. Reblogs and comments are creativity food.

series taglist: @findingjieun permanent taglist: @svintsandghosts

You had never been afraid of the dark.

You struggled to believe anyone truly was, with no true danger coming from the lack of light itself. No, no one is afraid of the dark. They are simply afraid of what lurks within, waiting for the cloak of nightfall to strike. 

So, you supposed, it made perfect sense that you simply felt a sense of foreboding now - plunged entirely into impenetrable blackness. 

You weren’t sure how long it had been dark. You weren’t even sure what the last thing you’d seen had been. Memories lingered just out of reach, teasing you with their reluctance to come any closer despite your desperate beckoning. 

Stubborn things, memories. 

Basic things were easy to recall; your name, your age, your parents. These were simple memories, ingrained into you from the day you were born ‘til now. As important as they were, these memories offered nothing as far as solace went. 

Incheon. You remembered Incheon, the city in which you’d spent the vast majority of your life. You remembered how the scent wafting on the summer breeze from the fish markets would make your nose curl, and how the sand at the beaches held their warmth even after the sun had set. The sound of airplanes arriving and departing from Incheon International seemed to be a perpetual background noise in most every memory, like a white noise you’d grown used to. 

You held onto it, that white noise, for that was a comfort. 

As you explored what you’d managed to recollect, more and more memories were released from their prison - flooding you with an almost overwhelming sense of identity, as though you’d begun to forget who you were.

You remembered your friends. 

You remembered Felix and his brilliant smile against constellation skin. You remembered the way he would celebrate your victories more so than you yourself would. He was light. He was the sunshine. He was warm, he was a comfort. 

You remembered Changbin and the boisterous laugh that came from within his broad chest. You remembered the way he’d choose violence against any who dared to wrong you. He was light, too. He was the streetlamps illuminating the path home. He was safe and he, too, was a comfort. 

They did not coexist with the white noise. They were separate comforts, Felix and Changbin, from a different home. 

Seoul. You remembered Seoul and its towering buildings and they way they made you feel so small - so insignificant - at first glance. You remembered tipping Felix as he danced in the streets of Hongdae, sticking around far longer than you’d intended after he’d shot you a grateful grin. He’d asked if you had plans, and taken you along to a sushi restaurant - where he’d introduced you to Changbin. 

You remembered the two of them showing you around, making entire days of introducing you to the contents of these domineering buildings, giving you advice on good versus bad places to be. They made you feel bigger, even just slightly, equipping you with the knowledge required to no longer fear the overwhelming amount of activity in the city. 

You remembered SeMA, and the way the art there had made you feel small, too - but in a much different way. You remembered the way a particular sculpture brought you to tears and that Changbin had gone on the defensive until you assured him that you were just touched by the piece. You remembered that Felix had asked lots of questions, joking with you that it was your turn now. 

Your turn for what, though?

If you were anywhere but in the dark, you’d have screamed in frustration. Or, maybe, you’d have cried out of guilt. As soon as you woke up, you decided, you’d apologize to Felix and Changbin for forgetting these precious moments. You were sure you’d remember if you went back to that gallery with the two of them.

Gallery. The gallery. SeMA. 

Art. Your art. SeMA. 

The darkness suddenly felt suffocating as you remembered. You remembered that you were an artist, a painter. You remembered submitting your art to be put on display. You remembered the acceptance email. You remembered that you had somewhere to be. 

You were going to be late for your very first showcase because you couldn’t wake up. You were going to miss seeing the looks on patron’s faces - whether pleased or displeased - as they took in the painstaking hours you’d poured onto a canvas. You were going to miss seeing if anyone noticed the finer details of your work, miss any question someone may have, miss any tears one may shed over it.

All because you couldn’t wake up.

Perhaps this was what was lurking in the dark for you, seeing as the nothingness surrounding you was suddenly horrifying.

Beeping. The first sound you’d encountered since finding yourself stuck in the dark. How ironic, having your alarm go off whilst you’re stuck in your own mind, incapable of grasping consciousness. You’d have laughed if you could.

Your mothers voice calling your name frantically, begging you to wake up. You’d have laughed harder, then, seeing as you hadn’t lived with her since you were nineteen. Twenty-three now, you chalked it up to an auditory dream, blaming the fear of missing your big day for bringing her into this.

You remembered getting into a car, your mentor’s car. Ms. Park, a gentle woman around your mothers age. You remembered the pride in her eyes as she asked if you were ready. You remembered her praise as she spoke to you about your piece, expressing admiration that you’d been accepted into a showcase so young.

But that couldn’t be right, could it? 

Anxiety crept into the shadows that swallowed you. If you’d already left for the show, why was your alarm going off? Why were you asleep? Why wasn’t Ms. Park waking you up?

You remembered. You remembered that your alarm was never a steady, repetitive beat, but an upbeat rock song with enough bass to rumble your nightstand. You remembered that you did, truly, get into the car with Ms. Park. You remembered laughing as she reminisced on your early days of painting, teasing you about having threatened to give up when certain shades of blue proved too difficult. 

You remembered, then, arguably the most important thing of all - how to open your eyes. 

Bright, white light flooded your vision as your lids fluttered open weakly. You didn’t want to remember anymore as the reality of the situation began to sink in. But you did. You remembered. You remembered that, just as you were blinded by the light above you now, you were blinded in the car, too. Not one, but two lights, barrelling at full speed towards your seat in the car. 

You remembered, though you wished you wouldn’t. The crunching of metal against metal, the shattering of glass, Ms. Park’s screams cut short by the airbags whooshing into action. The sudden jolt from your face hitting the dashboard, the taste of blood on your tongue, the smell of smoke. 

With the return of vision came pain. 

The pain was not remembered, but experienced. Dreadfully and completely, all at once. 

The right side of your face throbbed painfully with each erratic beat of your heart, your neck completely stiff and limbs feeling as if they were nothing but dead weight at your sides. It hurt to breathe, lungs fighting to expand under swollen flesh. These were minor inconveniences compared to the horror of your next realization.

Your hand.

Your right hand.

The hand with which you painted.

The hand around which you had inadvertently based your entire future. 

The pain was hot and white, brighter than the lights above - brighter than the lights that prefaced its very existence. You couldn’t lift it from your side, couldn’t bend your fingers through the electric shock attacking your nerves with each attempt. 

You screamed, then. A visceral outburst of shock and horror, anguish and hopelessness, and everything that came with and between. Nurses rushed to your side, urgently discussing something involving your morphine dosage as though any drug could dull the torment of what you had lost - what had been taken from you. 

Even as they pushed another dose, spewing empty reassurances from behind blue masks, you screamed. Even as the medication coursed through your veins, though the push back towards the unconsciousness of before brought it down to a pathetic whine, your desperation was not silenced until you found yourself back in the dark. 

You welcomed it, finding solace in its solitude. This time, you prayed that you wouldn’t remember.

Time, it seemed, had little to no effect on anything aside from your exterior. New flowers replaced the old, crimson replacing gold against the otherwise ébauche backdrop of your hospital suite. Faded blue walls - more gray than blue, really - interrupted only by clean white curtains and the dull green of your gown. And the flowers, of course the flowers. 

Felix and Changbin had brought them to you as soon as visitors were allowed, but they also brought questions. Questions that, if you were completely honest, you weren’t ready to answer. Questions like, “How are you feeling?” Questions like, “Do you wanna talk about it?” Questions that a response to would only serve to deepen the wounds that hadn’t healed. The wounds you weren’t sure ever would. The wounds they couldn’t see.

So you hadn’t spoken, allowing them to just sit in your presence despite what terrible company you made. You hadn’t spoken, or even looked up at them. Not because you didn’t want do, though. You just couldn’t. You couldn’t look up and see the pity - the sorry, helpless look - that you were sure they held for you. No, you couldn’t. That would make this real.

You knew that it was wrong to meet their concern with silence, in a way. Yet your heart lacked the heaviness that came with guilt, already carrying far too many burdens to worry about a possible offense.

The nurses came three times a day with meals - though you barely ate, the doctor twice for progress checks - confirming that your body was healing, and a therapist at least once - always asking the same questions that the boys had. You couldn’t answer them for her, either, always resulting in the same heavy sigh before she retreated - defeated completely by your lack of response - back to her office down the hall. 

Perhaps you should feel bad for her, too, being assigned such a non-cooperative patient. Trekking from the psychology wing to the inpatient ICU, just to be met with a brick wall. You wondered if her lack of heels in the last few days was a choice rather than coincidence, saving her feet from your unaccommodating, actively chosen muteness.

Your mother came every day - arguably the one you should have felt the worst for neglecting as she cried at your bedside, holding the hand not in a cast beneath her own as she apologized. For what? You busied your mind with that in her absence. She couldn’t have predicted this, she couldn’t have protected you, and she certainly wasn’t at fault. 

You hated that she apologized. You hated that you knew the answer to your own question. For what? For you. For your hand. For the misfortune that had befallen you. You hated that she apologized. You hated that she made it real. So you didn’t speak to her either - not out of spite, despite the way her remorse affected you. But out of necessity. Talking about it makes it real. Realer than apologies do. 

The sun rose and set, the days came and went, and you did not speak. You picked at your food, stared at the flowers, and you did not speak. The doctor removed your cast, and you wished he hadn’t. Black and blue highlighted the angry, puckered red scar left from the reconstructive surgery on your shattered hand - your shattered instrument - and it taunted you. It taunted you far more than the cast ever had. 

The cast was white. Innocent in both color and appearance as it held your hand still, giving you an excuse for its newfound lack of use. The cast protected you. Both your bones and your mind as it hid away the ugliness beneath. Hid away the evidence that it wasn’t a horrible dream. Hid away the evidence that it was real. 

The scar made it real. 

Rehabilitation was an option. An option you took, despite the doctor telling you that regaining full mobility was highly unlikely. An option you took because you were supposed to - because that’s what people in your situation do. 

You’d be able to write again, he’d said. To use your hand for the things everyone did. To eat, to touch, to hold another’s. You’d be able to draw. To paint, even. He’d said this like it was a miracle, like you should be grateful. 

But it would never be the same. He hadn’t said so, but you knew. 

You knew it would never be the same.

The tedium of your days went undeterred for a while. Sunrise, nurse, doctor, mom, nurse, doctor, therapist, sunset, nurse. Felix and Changbin on Mondays. What was unexpected, though, was a guest after the sunset nurse. A guest you’d not guessed would come - or simply hoped wouldn’t, seeing as she of all people would make this undeniably real. 

Ms. Park. 

Ms. Park with only sickly yellows and greens beneath her eyes to show that she’d been in the same car as you had. Ms. Park who still had full use of both of her hands, all ten of her digits, and the ability to dream. Ms. Park who’d called your name, slowly peeking past the curtain separating you from the world as your blood ran cold. 

Ms. Park who asked if she could sit, to which you nodded. 

“I’ve heard that your painting was well received by the patrons,” she spoke tentatively, as though fully aware of the irony that otherwise wonderful news brought with it. This news, had circumstances been different, would’ve made you happy. Circumstances were not different, though, and you were not happy.

It was a cosmic joke, being given a taste of success in your now-futile dream. A pill most bitter, knowing that you could’ve made a name for yourself with your work had a single red light not been ran. 

You felt your bruised heart crack further and wondered if it, too, had an ugly, angry, puckered scar.

“I’ve heard from your mother,” she interrupted the silence you were content to share with her, earning nothing but a blink in return. You watched as she adjusted the thin wire glasses sitting crookedly on her face before sighing, “She told me. About your hand.”

You clenched your jaw, finding the urge to speak for the first time in weeks for the sole purpose of cursing your mother. You didn’t, though, gritting your teeth and listening to your mentor’s words.

“I proposed an idea to her, and I know it’s not much,” you didn’t even need to listen to the rest of her sentence to know that she was right. It wouldn’t be much, seeing as she couldn’t fix your hand. She couldn’t change your fate.

“Now, you may not be able to do what you’re used to,” you winced at the reminder, unnecessary though not meant to hurt you, “But your wisdom is valuable, kid.” Your brows furrowed then, feeling foreign against your forehead from the weeks of inexpressiveness, “I think you have a lot to offer - to teach, and many people who would love to learn.”

Your fists clenched, the numbness of your right hand only fueling the sudden bout of rage her suggestion had sent through to your very core. Not only did her arrival cement for you what you’d refused to acknowledge was real - that, though you had survived, your dream had not - but she went even further. 

Suggesting that you give the last smoldering embers towards the fire of another’s pursuit of that very same dream made something inside of you snap.

You spoke.

“Get out,” you croaked, neglect having made your whisper come out in broken pieces. Ms. Park murmured your name then, features drooping into a sympathetic frown at the sight of your eyes welling with tears.

“Get out!” you said again, a raspy shout immediately shifting that pitying look into one of shock, “I said get out!” You grew louder as she began trying to backtrack, though the combination of your shouts and the throbbing of your pulse in your ears gave you no chance of understanding her. 

You fervently began to press the nurse-call button as you watched her still moving lips - despite your adamant demand - her hands held out with palms facing you in a gesture of surrender. 

It was too late to wave that white flag, though. The damage had been done. The thread had been snapped. Ms. Park did exactly what you’d feared she would.

She made it real. 

“Get out, get out, get out, get OUT!” you screamed now, voice cracking as it adjusted to it’s utilization, “NOW!” 

As your voice grew in volume, so did the rate at which the monitor at your bedside beeped. So did the pace at which you frantically tapped the button, never ceasing in your outburst until the nurse had arrived, obviously startled by your anger -  hastily escorting Ms. Park and her lingering, remorseful gaze from your room.

This was real.

Even after the monitor at the bedside had returned to a pace acceptable by medical standards, the tears flowing from your eyes did not.

This was real, and things would never be the same.

You pulled the pillow that had been supporting your head from its place, smothering your face into the starchy linen in an attempt to stifle the broken sobs bubbling forth from quivering lips. There was no use trying to stop the tears from flowing, now. Along with your hope that this was a terrible dream, the dam that held back everything you should’ve felt this entire time crumbled into a useless pile. 

Your throat constricted as you pulled the pillow from your face, tossing it aside carelessly to bury your face in your hands - both of them. The realization that your right felt much colder than your left, not circulating properly after the trauma, only served to deepen the grief that you were drowning in - far past the point of being able to tread its surface.

You’d fallen asleep crying that night. Crying each and every tear that you’d refused to allow freedom before. 

Because it would never be the same.

You no longer kept track of the sunrises and sunsets.

So it came as a surprise - though the word may seem misused considering your indifference - when the doctor brought you a thin stack of discharge papers. The flowers were orange today, in your mothers hands rather than atop the table. You didn’t bother to listen to the conversation between the doctor and your mother, nor did you read the paperwork at all before flipping to the last page. 

Never had you considered just how taunting a thin, black line could be until you stared down at the place where you were to sign your name. You were sure the nurse had thought herself helpful when she handed you a pen, likely having assumed that a lack of utensil was the primary source of your apprehension. 

In all honesty, you hadn’t even considered the need for one until she’d presented it to you, politely smiling - blissfully unaware - as you swallowed down a sudden lump in your throat. 

Taking the pen from her outstretched hand wasn’t entirely dissimilar to what prisoners must feel being given their last meal; a courteous act in retrospect, dampened if not completely overshadowed by the promise of doom.

The pen felt foreign in your hand, as though you’d never held one before. Your hand shook as you positioned the pen between your fingers, pressing the tip to the paper unsteadily. Suddenly self-conscious, you looked away from the page to ensure that the doctor was still engaged in conversation with your mother and that the nurse wasn’t looking your way. Relieved by the lack of spectacle, you returned your attention to the intimidating black line.

It was just your name, your signature, something you’d done countless times - so why was your heart racing? Why were your hands growing clammy and your stomach performing an olympic gymnastics routine? It was just your name. It was just your signature.

You used that as a mantra, forcing yourself to move the ink across the paper in flowing strokes, managing to get halfway through your name with no problem - until you felt the pain. Less of a stab than a concentrated burst of flame, directly in the center of your hand. You hissed as the pen jerked alongside your wrist, leaving a sharp, inelegant line of blue ink in its wake. 

You felt an uncomfortable warmth prickle up the back of your neck, sniffling as you readjusted the ball-point to where your signature had been abruptly cut off. You knew there were eyes on you now, as you struggled to complete the simple task through blurred vision.

It was just your name. Just your signature. Something you’d done countless times.

Still, you’d barely managed to complete the task. 

“Honey, I can –” you cut your mother’s well-intentioned offer off before she could finish, ignoring the wetness that trailed down your heated cheek.

“What’s the date?” Despite the external display of turmoil, your voice was steady - flat and businesslike - as you looked up at her face.

“Sweetheart, really, I can –”

“What is the date,” you spoke slower this time, forgoing the respectful manner in which you’d typically address her as you grew annoyed. Annoyed with the sympathetic glimmer in everyone’s eye whenever they’d try to speak with you, annoyed by the way she naturally doted - as many mothers do, annoyed by the sad smile that tugged at only one corner of her mouth.

“The fifteenth of April,” the nurse supplied, visibly stiffened by the sudden animosity that thickened the air between yourself and the matriarch. 

You turned your gaze towards her then, allowing the tear having escaped you earlier to drip from your jaw before thanking her in the same monotone voice you were using with your mother. 

You scrawled the date quickly, sloppy in your haste to complete it before your hand could catch fire once more. You dropped the pen, letting it clatter against the faux-wood of the bedside tray. You met your mothers eyes then, biting back any further aggression at the way her eyes shimmered with her own unshed tears.

“I’d like to leave now.”

Your mom nodded, passing you a plastic grocery bag, “We’ll give you some privacy to change, then.” 

You nodded and watched as she filed out of the room behind the medical staff. A relieved exhale left your lips as the curtain was shut quietly on your behalf.

If there was one thing you could say for your mother, it’s that she always knew the time and place. Now was not the time to scold you for being rude. This was not the place to confront you about your coldness towards her. Now was the time to let you be angry. Now was the time to say nothing outside of necessity. This was the place to leave you be.

At the soft click of your door closing, you tossed the blanket from your legs and threw them over the edge of the mattress, goosebumps rising up your arms as the cold tile met with your bare feet. You emptied the plastic sack’s contents to where you were once sitting, reassured to see a comfortable pair of sweats and a plain gray tee.

You weren’t sure you were quite ready to face buttons just yet.

You undid the bow on the back of your gown with your left hand - purposefully - allowing the gown to flutter to the speckled floor in a heap. You made haste of putting on your undergarments, the chilly air unpleasantly raising every bit of peach fuzz your skin had to offer.

The clothes mom had packed were loose, likely on purpose. You should’ve been thankful that she’d gone so far as to consider things easy to slip into, but you instead found yourself frustrated. Not with her, but with the fact that it was even a precaution that needed to be taken. 

You pushed back against the sudden tightness in your chest, refusing to cry more than once in a half an hour as you stuck your head into the shirt, pushing your arms through with an unneeded amount of force. Determined, you sat on the edge of the bed and kicked your feet into their respective halves of the sweatpants, standing to yank them over your hips with shuddering breaths. 

You didn’t think twice about the drawstrings around your waist, gripping them tightly in both hands before tugging forcefully outwards - stumbling back onto the bed as your right hand tensed - nails this time, nails that had been left in a furnace, hammering directly through the middle - nerves igniting all the way up to your elbow as you cursed under your breath. 

You stared down at the scar atop your hand, now a soft pink rather than violet-red - though, apparently, just as angry. Stupid. Stupid was how you felt. You shouldn’t have hoped that the dwindling of its colors had any correlation to its ability. You shouldn’t have hoped that it was more than just an aesthetic heal. You shouldn’t have hoped.

“Fuck…” you grumbled as you felt your ears grow hot, leaning your head back as though gravity could stop the tears that threatened to fall. 

Deep breath in, and out. Again. Once more. Collect yourself.

Standing from the bed, forgoing tightening the sweatpants, you walked to the door - abandoning the grocery bag and the dull green gown, still in an unkempt pile on the floor. The staff had gone, leaving just your mother waiting outside of your room. She offered you a smile as soon as she heard the creaking of hinges, tiger lilies from Changbin and Felix still in her arms.

You weren’t entirely sure how getting into a vehicle would go until you found yourself standing outside the passenger door of your mother’s sedan, staring at your own reflection in the window. You weren’t afraid, despite the calamity that ensued during your last experience. Perhaps your sense of self-preservation was also a casualty of the accident, feeling nothing at all as you opened the door and slid inside.

The door behind you opened, accompanied by the sweet scent of the bouquet the boys had brought yesterday as your mother carefully set it in the seat before shutting the door with more care than necessary. Was she trying to protect you, even now? Was she worried that the slamming of the door would hurt you? You didn’t know, nor did you particularly value the gesture in spite of her compassionate intent. You were too exhausted.

Maybe exhausted wasn’t the word. This tiredness was deeper, more permanent than simple overexertion. Stronger than simply needing rest. Harder than just sleeping it off. This tiredness radiated throughout your very bones, making a home within you that you doubted it would abandon anytime soon. 

You were moving now, having completely missed your mother getting into the driver’s seat - and unsure of how your seatbelt had made its way snug against your chest. It was safe to assume she’d ensured your safety herself, as she would when you were a child. Patronizing as it may have seemed to be brought back to your adolescence, relief overwhelmed any offense you otherwise held - the potential of a struggle had you done it yourself more than enough to excuse her.

The entire drive seemed to pass in a blur of pale gray sky against asphalt a few shades darker, splashes of color from pedestrians and other vehicles, and the sound of the reliable engine sputtering as it brought you towards your destination. 

Home. 

It wasn’t as comforting as tv dramas had made it seem, arriving home after a prolonged absence. There was no celebration, no warm aura emanating from the windows, no relief. 

Home, as it turned out, was just a more familiar place to face unfamiliar situations.

You declined your mother’s offer to walk you in, leaving her sympathetic smile and lingering words of affection behind as you trudged forth on the concrete walkway. You didn’t turn around as you made your way up the trio of stairs that led to the door. You didn’t need to turn around to know she was watching as you transferred the flowers from your boys to the crook of your elbow to type in the building’s code. You knew she watched as you stepped forward into the musty air that always lingered in old buildings as the door closed behind you.

You felt like an intruder as you stepped into the stagnant air of your neglected apartment, setting the lilies atop the counter before taking it all in. 

It was the same as it had always been, a moment in time that had frozen in your absence. The air carried faint hints of lilac from the long-gone wall plug and the linseed notes of oil paint, the walls carrying the pieces of art you were too fond of to give away. Everywhere you looked there were reminders of your passion - the passion you’d never be able to embrace in the same way again.

This was obviously the home of an artist. The artist Eclipse, whom you no longer were. You were only a person like any other now. You were just…you. At least no one would know why Eclipse had ceased painting, leaving it an intriguing mystery rather than the tragic truth. You supposed that was the bright side of painting under a pseudonym.

You felt like an intruder. 

As you silently pulled the paintings from their long-occupied homes on the walls, you only felt slightly less out of place. One after another, all evidence that you’d ever had the ability to create at all was set gently into the coat closet nearest your front door. You’d worry about your studio later - likely returning it to the spare bedroom it had been originally intended for in the floor plan - though, for now, ignoring it seemed like the best option. 

Little by little, the evidence of the hours of dedication you had hung on your walls was reduced to nothing but nail-holes and rectangular patches that lacked the dust that had accumulated during your absence. Little by little, this apartment felt like it didn’t belong to an artist, but to you. Just you. 

Funny - bitterly so - that being surrounded by emptiness made you feel at home. 

You made your way to bed then, completely spent after a task heavier than the labor required to perform it. A humorless scoff left your lips as you spotted your phone on the bedside table - still connected to its charger - exactly as you’d left it in your rush to get out the door for the exhibit. 

The thought of checking it at all nauseated you. There was absolutely no doubt that it would be filled with consolatory messages, get-well-soon wishes, and questions about your wellbeing. All of those things were nothing more than reminders of what had happened. Nothing more than cold, cruel splashes of reality, regardless of how pure the intention may be.

So you didn’t. You didn’t check your phone. You didn’t call your friends. 

You did remove the easel from your room. You did put it with the paintings in the closet, along with the half finished piece it had held. You’d been proud of that piece before. You’d been eager to complete it before, the final vision clear as day in your mind.

But that was before. Now, it served simply to take up floor space in the entryway closet - fated to live in the dark, incomplete. 

Your bedsheets were even more enticing with the easel out of sight. They were cool against the exposed skin of your arms as you slinked beneath their comfort, closing your eyes as you welcomed sleep to take you back to a world of surrealism. A world in which you didn’t need to acknowledge your hand. A world in which you weren’t lost.

You would’ve been perfectly content to stay put in your bed had it not been for the inconveniences that came with being a human being. Aside from requiring sustenance and use of a restroom, you had additional duties that came with being recently released from the hospital. 

So, you took your meds. You drank some water and used the bathroom, and ate a few crackers. You did precisely enough for your body to be capable of falling right back into the comfortable world of unconsciousness. 

And you would’ve been perfectly content to maintain this new routine, too, had it not been for the inconveniences that came with a worried mother. You still hadn’t touched your phone, missing the fact that she’d been attempting to check in on you several times during the last few weeks. As any parent worth half a damn would be, she was understandably concerned. 

Concerned enough to use her spare key to see how you were doing for herself. 

You’d been woken up by bright light filtering from what had formerly been a curtained window, your mother having pulled the heavy fabric aside to welcome in the harshness of the sun. Squinting, you made out the silhouette of her frame and sat up in bed. 

“Ma, what are you –”

“You’re getting up,” she interrupted, pulling the comforter off of you in a sweeping motion. Your arms sprang to wrap around your torso in a futile attempt to keep yourself warm, “And you’re doing it now.”

“But –”

“Now,” she repeated, her voice carrying a level of authority that - despite having been away from home for four years - you couldn’t refuse. You scooched towards the edge of the bed, placing your feet tentatively on the floor before looking up to meet her eyes.

She was angry, that much was made obvious by the singular raised brow and arms crossed against her chest. Her face held more than that, however. Something akin to relief laced with sadness hid behind the dangerous glint in her eyes.

“You haven’t returned any of my calls.” You averted your gaze as guilt threatened to invade the numbness you’d begun to cherish, “I asked the boys if they’d heard from you, and you haven’t answered them either.”

The boys. Changbin and Felix. They were probably worried, too, you figured. Well, as long as they didn’t lose interest in you whilst you ignored everything aside from your body and your bed.

“As you can see,” you sighed, holding your hands out to your sides, “I’m perfectly fine. So if you’d be so kind as to –”

“You’re not fine, sweetheart,” she interrupted, again. She had a habit of doing that often when she was upset, not wanting to hear the alternative to the thoughts that had driven her to the point of outward irritation, “Do you have any idea how worried we’ve been?”

“I’ve been resting, ma,” you groaned, the attempt to run your hand through your hair cut short by the tangles that had formed from days of neglect.

“No,” she took a shaky inhale, “You were rotting.” 

You couldn’t argue then, simply continuing to stare down at the hardwood floor beneath your bare feet. 

“Get some clothes and take a shower,” she ordered, though her voice sounded more defeated than anything, “I’ll prepare some breakfast, then we’re going to talk.”

The ominous way she ended the sentence didn’t go unnoticed, though you knew better than to ask questions right now. You did as you were instructed, pulling a fresh pair of sweats and a comfortable hoodie from the dresser before forcing your legs to carry you towards the bathroom.

You caught a glimpse of your sorry state in the mirror as you undressed. You couldn’t find it within yourself to be embarrassed as you noticed the lopsided nature the knots had given your hair. Despite doing the bare minimum aside from sleeping, purplish hues filled the space beneath your eyes. Your skin was dull - your expression even moreso - and your lips were chapped and peeling. 

You couldn’t bring yourself to mind, though, looking away to turn the knobs of the shower. The pipes groaned as hot water put them to use for the first time since before the accident, the showerhead sputtering a few times before releasing a steady stream into the tub. 

You looked back towards yourself, watching as the building steam steadily obscured your reflection before finally stepping beneath the water. The warmth against your skin felt foreign, though not entirely unpleasant. It took you a while to reach for the shampoo and lather your hair, already dreading the detangling process you’d need to take just to finish the wash. 

But you did, eventually, massaging the fruity scent against your head in slow circles before pressing harder when you realized just how good it felt.

You didn’t realize just how sore and itchy your scalp had become, the sensation of your fingertips awakening the nerve endings you’d been neglecting. You lathered for much longer than necessary before allowing the foam to rinse down your back, swirling down the drain alongside several bunches of tangled hair.

You filled the entirety of your palm with conditioner, applying it along the ends of your hair before concentrating it within the interwoven knots. You used your fingers to pry apart the stubborn strands slowly, wincing as you inadvertently yanked against the tender skin in the process. 

The sensation of wet hair sliding down your back made you shudder as more strands were added to the ranks of the already concerning amount of hair. Wetness pooled at your feet as the drain struggled to keep up, hindered by the building layer blocking its cover. 

You ignored the prickle at the corner of your eyes, grabbing your body wash with blurred vision. You squeezed a large glob onto the loofah - only to drop the bottle with an echoing thud to the shower floor. 

Though you’d been trying to hide away from reality beneath your bedsheets, your hand remembered. Beneath the scar proving the existence of your tragedy was the pain. The sharp, sudden burning that had led you to drop the bottle. You wanted to cry, to scream, to expel every last bit of frustration that came with the sudden reminder of your circumstances - but you didn’t. 

Instead, you silently picked up the bottle, placing it back onto the shelf before scrubbing the weeks’ worth of wallowing from your skin. From your neck to your toes, you rubbed ferociously. You sloughed away any dead skin roughly, leaving behind a pink hue on every bit of flesh the loofah touched. You scrubbed, as though you could remove your newfound handicap if you pressed hard enough. You scrubbed, as though the pain beneath the surface could be cleansed away by soap alone.

As you scrubbed at the scar on your hand - that vengeful, tangible mark - you knew it would never go away. You knew that it wasn’t as though you’d made a mistake on a sketch. You knew that, for this, there was no eraser. No back button. No reset. You couldn’t simply turn to a new page and start again - every page now had this vengeful, tangible mark.

The water had begun to run cold, yet you still persisted. It wasn’t until your mother called from your kitchen that she’d finished preparing the meal that you were pulled from the trance, staring down at your thoroughly exfoliated hand as you turned the faucet off. 

You quickly dried, pulling on your comfortable clothes before wrapping your hair up into a towel. You couldn’t see your reflection this time, though you were sure that bathing had given it a stark improvement to the zombie from before. 

This suspicion was confirmed as you caught sight of the way your mom’s face softened at your newfound cleanliness. She had set a plate of french toast and fruit at the table for you. The lilies the boys had gotten you were there, too - though they were nearly completely wilted, more of a rust than sunset orange. They’d been fading alongside you, it seemed. 

Your mother sat down across the table from you, watching you eat a few small pieces of fruit from your plate between her own bites before speaking up.

“So,” she dabbed at the edge of her lips with a paper towel, removing a stray bit of syrup, “I spoke with Ms. Park.”

You winced, putting a bite of the sickeningly sweet breakfast into your mouth to avoid having to answer. Your last interaction with the woman you once proudly claimed as your mentor was the last thing you wanted to discuss with your mother. 

“She told me about her idea, having you teach,” she paused, taking another bite as she waited for you to say something, anything at all. When you occupied your mouth with another powdered-sugar coated bite, averting your eyes from her expectant expression, she continued.

“I think she’s right, you know.”

You nearly choked, reaching for the glass of orange juice you’d been neglecting to wash down the culprit, balking at your mother as soon as you’d regained composure.

“I really don’t think so, ma,” you mumbled before biting a strawberry in half. 

“I do,” she reiterated, “You need to do something aside from lying around all day. Tell me, sweetheart,” she leaned forward, prompting you to meet her stern gaze, “If I hadn’t come today, when would you have gotten up and taken care of yourself?”

Words escaped you, though you knew the answer. You knew that you would’ve continued to lay in the sheets, hiding from the world. You knew that you wouldn’t smell of fruits and florals, but of your own sweat had she not arrived. You knew that you would’ve continued to sustain yourself off of crackers and stale bottles of water. You knew that she had a point - but you also knew that acknowledging it would do nothing but further her point.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, a flustered exhale coming from her lips as she read your silence perfectly, “You should take her up on her offer, honey. You need to do something,” she took a long sip of her juice, gaze hardening, “Or I will.”

You were taken aback. 

“What? What do you mean, ma?” you spoke slowly, feeling your chest sink at the seriousness in her expression, “What do you mean, you’ll do something?”

“If you can’t take care of yourself, there are places to go,” she stated plainly, crossing her arms against her chest, “If you can’t pull yourself together, there are several facilities that will help you.”

Your blood ran cold. 

“Ma…” you croaked, suddenly feeling sick to your stomach. She couldn’t mean what you thought she did…could she? 

“Try to see it from my perspective, sweetie,” her voice took on a much more soothing tone as she reached a hand across the table, placing it on top of your own, “Your baby was in an accident, recovered and went home. She won’t talk to anybody, she won’t take care of herself…” she trailed off as her eyes welled with tears, “As her mother, even if it feels wrong –” she took a shaky breath, squeezing the top of your hand gently in her grasp, “You do what needs done to help her, right?”

You swallowed hard, once again knowing that she was right. Knowing that she had a point. Knowing that, despite your complete displeasure at the idea, that you - in her shoes - would do the very same. 

For the first time since the accident, your heart ached for someone besides yourself. 

“So,” she continued with a sniffle, blinking hard before wiping her eyes. She was still trying to hold herself together, even now, “I need you to choose for me - to choose for yourself,” she gave your hand a final reassuring squeeze before returning it to her lap, “The mental hospital, or Ms. Park - who are we calling?”

Both of the ideas left a sickening sensation of bile in your throat. On one hand, a psychiatric ward felt like signing away the last remaining bits of yourself that you had - like the pieces of yourself you were left with would cease to be within your control. On the other, the idea of speaking to Ms. Park after the way you’d left off was nothing short of horrifying - you wondered if she’d address it, and how you’d handle it if she did. Neither option felt anything close to appealing.

Either way, you were relinquishing control over your life - control over your choices. One thing stood above the rest, however. 

Privacy. Space to mourn. Space to be alone, unmonitored. 

“Call Ms. Park,” you whispered, vocalizing your decision before you had time to change your mind.

This was the lesser of the two evils - at least, you hoped.

God, you hoped.

The next couple of days passed by in a blur. Your mother had called Ms. Park on your behalf after sensing your hesitation to speak to her following the outburst at the hospital - for that, and that alone, you were grateful. Her voice echoed in your head, “She’ll do it,” she’d said simply, as though you’d accepted a contract - and, in a way, you had. They felt foreboding, those words. An agreement made out of necessity, spoken of in nothing short of businesslike tones as they discussed the details - you were listening, but never interjected. 

It was difficult to have an opinion about something you wanted nothing to do with, it seemed.

They’d decided to have you meet with a student in a few days, giving Ms. Park enough time to find a pupil whilst giving you not nearly enough to prepare. You’d done your best, though, deciding to start with introductions and finding out what they already knew before planning out thorough lessons. 

You’d rejected Ms. Park’s offer of meeting the student beforehand, asking your mother to relay to her that you weren’t looking to make friends - you were doing this out of necessity, and nothing more. Mother, of course, softened your words into something much more palatable, letting Ms. Park know that you’d rather not make two separate trips to the studio. 

She was doing that a lot lately, mother - making you easier to digest. 

You’d like to think that was for your benefit alone, but you knew her. You knew that she was trying to ensure that you hadn’t left yourself isolated when you came out of this - if you came out of this. 

You’d chosen comfort over leaving an impression today, opting for an all black hoodie-and-leggings combo for the third time this week with your hair tied back in an efficient-but-messy bun atop your head. You didn’t bother with any makeup, certain that you wouldn’t seem too terribly disheveled in the presence of exhausted art students. 

You caught the bus to the main campus, doing your best to watch your feet instead of the surroundings of the very place you’d graduated from but a year prior. Forcing your feet forward against the familiar cobbled walkways was giving you enough reason to hesitate as-is, you didn’t want to look at the towering buildings filled with memories of the artist you’d never be again. 

Eclipse learned here, you did not. 

In spite of that, your feet remembered the way towards the studio wing and carried you there dutifully. You easily found studio 6, the room in which you were to meet the person you’d be stuck teaching for the remainder of their semester - the person whose inspired dream would serve only as bitter reminders of your inability to do the same.

At least you weren’t in a padded room, right?

You stepped inside of the room, immediately greeted by the scent most art rooms would tend to carry - earthy and thick, with hints of chemical-laced paints and varnish. You remembered when these smells would make you feel inspired. You remembered the way they’d cling to your clothes and fill your apartment - making sleep impossible as the need to create invaded your psyche.

It wasn’t the same anymore, though, and it never would be. Now, his room smelled like hopelessness. This room smelled like anger. This room smelled like gasoline and smoke and sterile iodine. This room smelled like loss.

Ignoring the way these familiar scents tugged at your heart, you pulled a stool from the corner of the room and took a seat, waiting in absolute silence for the arrival of your forced pupil.

Hwang Hyunjin valued many things - among these was being punctual. So, naturally, when he woke up with ten minutes until he was scheduled to meet with his mysterious new instructor, he was freaking out. 

He’d nearly fallen from his mattress, tripping on the comforter that his legs had become entangled in during sleep. He caught himself last minute on his nightstand, knocking over his lamp in the process. 

Following his far-from-graceful exit out of bed, he pulled a pair of sweatpants on to replace the pajamas he’d worn to bed, tying his hair sloppily behind his ears as she shoved a piece of toast into his mouth - cursing under his breath as he stumbled, half asleep, out of his dorm. 

You’d started to consider leaving when the clock displayed five-past-ten, wondering if your mother would excuse you for not upholding the deal you’d struck with her considering the tardiness of your student - though the fantasy entertaining that thought provided was erased the moment the studio door slammed open.

Standing there was a very disheveled man, panting, with beads of sweat on his brow. Had he…ran here? Was this your student?

Your name spilled from his lips in a breathless inquiry, his eyes wide with what you could only describe as panic as he took in your crossed arms and disinterested demeanor.

“You’re late.”

You watched him gulp at your words, something you may have found humor in if it weren’t for your complete lack of desire to be here at all. Though he definitely beat you out in the height department, the way he shrunk into himself made it seem as though you were much more intimidating. 

“I know, I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened, I swear I set an ala—” he started to ramble, averting his eyes. 

“Sit,” you interrupted with a terse staccato, nodding towards a spare stool. 

He quickly obliged, nearly tripping over his own feet in his rushed attempt to follow your instructions. You allowed yourself to wonder for a moment if you truly were that scary, but you assumed that he was probably just nervous - something you could fully relate to. When you’d first met with Ms. Park - who was arguably much more personable than you were being towards this boy - your hands were so clammy that you struggled to hold your brush.

He sat a respectable distance from you, chewing on his plush lower lip as he studied your face. Of what he was looking for you were uncertain, but if the shell-shocked expression on his face was any indicator? He was likely waiting for you to speak, to assure him that things were fine.

But, you weren’t here to make friends - you weren’t here to make him comfortable.

You met his observational once-over with one of your own; Hyunjin was tall and thin, though not gangly. He held an aura of authority, despite his easygoing expression. Inquisitive eyes framed by well-maintained brows and sculpted cheekbones, a gently sloping nose and full, plush lips the color of peonies. Small indents were visible on his flushed cheeks - likely from the fabric of his pillow. His hair fell messily around his face, tickling the tops of his shoulders - though it was messily tied away, you could tell that it would be like silk to the touch. 

You were suddenly self-conscious. Hyunjin was art.

“My name’s Hyunjin,” he finally spoke, holding eye contact with you despite the nerves you could feel radiating from his perch a few feet away, “And I’m sorry I’m late.”

You watched as he extended his hand towards you, head bowed in apology. You noticed his fingers - slender and steady, despite the way his voice shook. You noticed his eyes - filled with curiosity and eagerness, even in the face of such an off-putting encounter. You noticed his posture - back straight despite the sheepish bow of his head. You noticed him - had you met him on the street, you would’ve still been able to tell. He was more than just art, but an artist, and it was obvious. 

You found it hard to remain stoic then, feeling a pit of something bitter in your gut. It felt like a knife had been lodged beneath your sternum, forcing you to swallow hard before introducing yourself properly. You took his outstretched palm in your own, flecks of paint beneath his otherwise perfectly manicured nails serving to twist the knife and bring a bile to your throat. 

You were jealous. 

You were jealous of Hyunjin and his eager eyes and unsullied hands. 

“I figured we’d start with what you already know,” you said through the growing lump in your throat, allowing your hand to fall limply back to your side, “What mediums do you use most often?”

Hyunjin lit up at the question, smiling broadly as he launched into an explanation, “I think I use watercolor most often,” you could see the brightness in his eyes - the passion - as he spoke, “But, lately, I’ve been dabbling into oils. They’re a lot different than watercolor, though, so it’s been…” his nose scrunched up as he trailed off, in search of the right word, “A learning curve. A difficult learning curve.”

You were jealous of Hyunjin and his desire to learn.

“So, you’re wanting to learn about oils then?” You asked him the questions you needed to in order to plan lessons for him, ignoring the way envy crawled uncomfortably up your spine.

“Mhm! Ms. Park had mentioned you had a lot of knowledge in that area, so I pretty much begged her to choose me for the mentorship!” he laughed - an innocent, embarrassed laugh - as he recounted this to you, “Ms. Park is a really tough critic,” his gaze clouded, reminding you of the same fear the woman had instilled in you when it came to grading your work, “She sang your praises, though! So I’m sure that I’ll learn a lot from you.” The corners of his lips pulled up into a grin then, expectant eyes boring into yours with an intensity you’d only recently found yourself without.

You were jealous of Hyunjin and his ability to focus on the future. 

“That’s the goal, yeah?” you tried to hide the bitterness behind your words as the suppressed emotion clawed at your insides, threatening to spill out if you’d elaborate any further. Hyunjin simply nodded, spurring you to continue, “Let’s see what you do know, today. We’ll go from there.”

Hyunjin rose from his stool to go towards the supply closet, grabbing a small canvas and some supplies; brushes, spatulas, several tubes of paint and an unused palette. He moved gracefully, a stark contrast to the flustered man you’d’ve sworn you met moments ago. This Hyunjin was vastly different. This Hyunjin was confident and calm, flowing even before he held a brush in his hands. 

As he set up his supplies next to an empty easel, you found yourself immobilized. You could do nothing but watch as he pulled his stool closer, opening a few windows to ventilate the toxic paints before taking a seat. You were drawn to the furrow of his concentrated brows, the gentleness of which he squeezed the tubes of paint, the way he’d press his lips together as he thought - releasing them back to their previous fullness only when he’d reached a conclusion he was content with. 

Your interest only grew more difficult to ignore when he put the first splash of color onto the canvas - a smear of daffodil yellow dragged along the otherwise white canvas, much like the golden hues that had once broken the monotony of your hospital room. Bit by bit, little by little, he added more elements, concentration not breaking even once. He’d finished after a half an hour, obvious displeasure on his face as he set the brush he’d been using down with a clatter. 

“I just can’t figure out how to properly blend these…they always end up so muddled…” his face was wrinkled as he stared at the canvas - now a mess of different hues clashing against one another violently. You could see what his intention was, despite his struggle with the delivery. He stepped aside then, allowing you space to appraise the work yourself. 

He’d gone rather abstract, winding bits of color that were intended to blend seamlessly into eachother instead having patches of dull, hospital-gown green separating them. Like walls, you noted, walls that didn’t allow the colors to shine through. 

You felt your eyes begin to sting as you recognized the errors that you, yourself had made in your beginning days with oils - though you chalked it up to the fumes, ignoring the beast growing ravenous in your heart.

“Where do you think you went wrong?” you asked, ripping your gaze away from the canvas to meet with his. 

“I don’t know,” he started, disappointment evident on his face, “I think I noticed it starting to get muddled when I added in that turquoise shade. I tried to fix it with more yellow…” he sighs then, tucking the strands on either side of his face behind his ears as his lips twist into a scowl, “Why can’t I figure this out?”

Though he said this more towards himself than you, you found it necessary to reply.

“Have you ever considered that yellow wasn’t the answer?”

“Huh?” he stepped closer to the canvas, leaning in next to you and squinting as he tried to identify exactly what you meant. He smelled of linseed and cloves. He smelled like the pursuit of dreams. He smelled infuriating. 

“So, with watercolor, you can’t really go back…right? It’s either add, or leave it.” 

He nodded, sliding back onto the stool as he awaited further instruction. He stared up at your serious expression, anticipation obvious in the way his foot bounced against the floor. 

“Oil takes a long time to dry,” you supplied, pointing at the unopened tube of bright white, “Scrape off some of that yellow, and add some of this.”

Hyunjin looked confused, but complied easily. His hand was steady as he gently removed a large glob of sunshine from the canvas, wiping it on the edge of the palette before squeezing some white into an empty indent. 

You watched as he hesitantly dipped a thin brush into the pure white. 

You watched as he dabbed it carefully into the space once stained with that murky green. 

You watched as his face lit up at the vibrance the blue gained, you watched as his strokes became more confident as they met the yellow, and you watched as he blended them together into a brilliant emerald.

You watched, and you were jealous. 

You were jealous of Hyunjin’s hands - Hyunjin’s unscarred, capable hands. 

“Wow! That’s so much better..? I can’t believe it was that simple!” he sounded awestruck, as though you’d handed him the holy grail instead of some offhanded advice. He looked up at you with a bright smile, one that you’d have reciprocated had it not been for the newfound name for the sensation bubbling from within; rage.

You were angry. 

Angry that he seemed so carefree, so unaware of just how blessed he was to still have the capacity for improvement. Angry that he could celebrate a victory as small as learning to blend. Angry that your skill was benefitting him, and would never benefit you again. 

“That’s it for today,” you grumbled, quickly stepping back from the evidence of your knowledge being passed to someone else. Long, rushed strides carried you to the door - your hand trembling as you reached for the handle. 

“So soon?” Hyunjin asked, completely immune to the dark clouds swirling around your head. You could hear the disappointment in his voice, not needing to turn around to know that you’d managed to extinguish his excited spark in a matter of seconds. 

“That’s what I said,” you reiterated, turning the handle and taking a step out the door.

“Thank you!” he shouted after you.

Your rage - simmering and bubbling, lit ablaze with each passing second, and your envy - freezing, harsh and uninhabitable, clashed together then. You froze, feeling your cheeks grow hot as your hands grew cold, slowly turning to face him. 

He had stood to bow, body at what must have been an uncomfortable ninety-degree angle. 

“Whatever,” you mumbled, fighting against the discomfort of the prickling at the base of your neck before spinning on your heel, all but running from the studio in your rush to get away from him - to get away from the feelings that came along with him. 

Hyunjin was art, and an artist. Hyunjin was infuriating. Hyunjin didn’t know what he had and you hated it - you hated him for it.

Hyunjin watched as you fled, the image of your stony glare burned into his eyelids even as the door thudded shut behind you. 

He didn’t understand, how could he? 

He began to clean up after himself, placing the supplies back into their respective places and rinsing the palette out in the sink. Pulling his piece from the easel, he stared at that brilliant shade you’d taught him to create in under five minutes - a shade he’d been struggling with for weeks - and decided. 

Hyunjin would learn everything he could; from you, about you.

He would understand how to make a beautiful work of art with oil paints, and he would understand the storm he’d witnessed behind your eyes. He would understand the way colors interacted together against a canvas, and he would understand what brought emotion forward from your indifference.

He hung his canvas to dry, then, on one of the many pegs sticking out from the walls. He promised himself, then, as he stared at the best piece he’d managed to make using oil as a medium - he promised to be diligent, to pay attention, to absorb all there was to know.

About painting, about you.

You’d made a promise to yourself, too. A promise to lock up that rage, to lock up that envy, to try and outrun the storm that Hyunjin had brought to a head. You had to keep it together, and promised yourself that you’d try. You had to, after all. This was your life now.

It would never be the same.